


Insolence

by beforethequeen, taketheblanket



Category: South Park
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Slash, creek - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-01-03 02:39:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 82,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beforethequeen/pseuds/beforethequeen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/taketheblanket/pseuds/taketheblanket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After nearly everyone left for college, 22 year old Craig Tucker is stuck in a dying mountain town with a video camera and a few uninspiring faces. Slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a multi-chapter fic written by my partner and myself. You can find us on tumblr as feraldays and dominus-spooktius. Thank you for reading.

_17:05:12 Nov 11 2012_

Craig takes the stairs down to Token's basement studio two at a time without bothering to turn on the light. He knows how many stairs there are after years of friendship and if he lets his right hand skate down the railing on the wall, he'll know exactly where the flight turns. His left hand is curled loosely around his camera so when he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he has to push the thick black-out curtain aside with his shoulder.

Token's silhouette is back lit from the blue glow of his double monitor spread. The towers of equipment boxes and thousands of DVD cases that line the walls seem to be pulsating as Token scrolls backwards through the footage on one screen as the other monitor plays the same few clips forward. His laptop is open off to the side, quietly humming a song Craig has never heard. Craig leans over his friend to plug his camera into the laptop so he can upload the last week's footage.

With one tap on the keyboard, Token pauses all three screens. With a drag of his finger across the screen of his phone, the lights in the basement rise.

"Okay," he smiles at Craig. "Let me see it."

Craig unbuttons his shirt, letting it fall off his shoulders so he can peel back the rectangle of plastic wrap and medical tape that spans the width of his chest. He reveals a new tattoo, the skin beneath still swollen, the needle having driven into it an hour before. Crisp black and grey lines form the outline of a large moth, its wings spread wide across Craig's chest. Craig looks down at the art from above, still amazed with the level of detail the artist was able to put in.

"It's beautiful. How much did this one cost?"

"Four paychecks," Craig sighs. "Totally worth it."

"What number is this?"

"Eighteen."

"You're a walking piece of art, Craig Tucker."

Craig peels the rest of the plastic off and tosses it in the garbage, letting his shirt fall to the ground. He is too lazy to cross the room for another chair, and instead sits down on the floor in just his jeans.

"Why a moth?"

"I don't know," Craig answers. "I wanted something black and grey and something symmetrical, so why not?"

"Can't argue that."

"When are you going to get a tattoo?" Craig prods.

"We've had this conversation before. Never. The only thing I would ever even consider is something like your knuckles."

Craig extends both of his hands, the block letters across his eight fingers read FUCK and YOU, with the outline of a heart filling his left pinky. Beneath the obscenity on his right hand is the tattoo he knows Token is referring to, a solid black symbol on the top knuckle of each finger, mirroring the play, pause, fast forward and rewind buttons seen on the side of his camera.

"But even then," Token continues, "one day, when we're famous filmmakers and we get in a petty argument and refuse to work together, then we'll have the same goddamn tattoo and everyone will think we're gay."

They both laugh and Craig sharply withdraws his hands. The video from Craig's camera loads onto the screen, popping up over the paused clips Token was watching.

"It's not much," Craig says, nodding toward the screens, "I've been working my ass off at PetSteps and Kyle doesn't let me have my camera."

Token transfers the footage that Craig uploaded on to the desktop computers, where he dumps it into a folder titled "Thanksgiving 2012." They're two weeks out from Token's annual Thanksgiving-eve party. Token and Craig first threw this party when they were juniors in high school. A casual hobby for film evolved into a true passion for both of them and after years of collecting footage of friends, they began uploading particularly embarrassing or memorable moments on YouTube. They loved the response they would get, so the friends started saving the best clips for November, editing them into thirty minutes of footage that tells the story of the prior year. A five year tradition, Craig and Token are always looking to improve upon their work. The Thanksgiving party isn't the biggest get together of the year, but it's been about three months since everyone has last seen each other, and Craig is sure they're all eager to catch up.

"How is the film coming?"

Token rolls his eyes from the screen to Craig on the floor. "More or less finished. I've compiled some good stuff, but it doesn't feel like enough."

"What's wrong with it now? We still have some time, we can go to a party tonight."

"I have to head back to school after dinner with my parents, but that's not it, not totally." Token stands up and stretches, Craig watches his orange and purple plaid shirt ride up over his flat stomach. "I keep thinking about South Park. Boulder is dull." Craig raises his eyebrows expectantly, but Token ignores him. "I like it, but it's too..." Token waves a hand around, "Alive. Boulder is more energetic than I'm used to, if that makes any sense." Craig shrugs. He would have never gone to college, so now that Token is complaining about the boredom of a busy town, Craig wants to say, "I told you so."

"Huh," is what comes out instead.

Token drops to the floor across from Craig, letting the video transfer completely. "I want to make a real movie. About South Park. I have a thesis that I have to prepare for and I want it to be about our hometown."

"That's the best you can do?" Craig asks, eyeing his friend. Token makes direct eye contact through his glasses and Craig grabs for his phone, scrolling through the article he was reading earlier on the prospective films for the Telluride Film Festival.

"South Park is dead, man. I can't imagine a better subject." Token reaches up to the desk when the chiming from the speakers indicates that the footage has loaded onto the computers. He pulls the camera down and turns it over in his hands. Craig lowers his phone to watch him. Token's square face is framed by his big, natural hair, his eyes hidden by the thick dark rim of his glasses, glasses that only Craig knows are fake.

"How long have you had this?"

"Sophomore year of high school. It was basically my entire paycheck from those two months I worked at Wing Street."

Token hums thoughtfully and stands, walking over to his chaotic organized pile of equipment and picks up a black bag Craig has never seen before. He hands it to Craig. "I'm only here on the weekends, you'll get much better footage than I will."

Craig's inked hands unzip the thick bag and reach in to lift out a black Canon XF100 camcorder. He stares at it. The plastic is sleek and matte, and lens is huge, and when he holds it up to his face, there are a wide range of buttons to hit and dials to turn. It's nothing like his shiny silver off-brand camera. Craig flips open the screen and shuts it again. He looks up at Token. "You're fucking me."

His best friend laughs. "It's on loan from the film department. They'll have my head if anything happens to it, but I want you to use it. You'll get better footage than I will. Just don't leave it anywhere, keep it with you at all times."

Craig's gaze slides down to study the camera, but Token grabs his hat and yanks it off his head, making Craig look back up at him.

"Are you listening, asshole?"

Craig rolls his eyes. "I get it, dude. Thanks."

Token nods once, his lips pressed together in the same way they always are whenever Token is observing the people around him. "Do me a favor, and email me footage at the end of each day, then I can edit shit at school and maybe I won't be so bored all the time."

"My computer can't handle this kind of equipment," Craig tells him. He gestures towards his camera, where it sits on Token's desk, looking pathetic and outdated. "It's older than that little shit."

"It'll upload through USB. You won't be able to view the files, but they'll import. Just compress them and email them to me."

Craig shrugs, his hand sliding eagerly under the neoprene strap on its side. He feels the weight of thousands of dollars in his right hand. His thumb traces over a few of the buttons, mapping its way to the power switch and the camera vibrates against his palm as it hums to life.

"Sure."

He ignores the weight of Token's gaze on him as he hits record and lifts the viewfinder to his eye.

_03:14:59 Nov 12 2012_

Craig Tucker stares into the lens of the video camera. He's been eyeing the fancy machinery all night, sitting at his desk and turning his old faithful over in his hands. His laptop gave up trying to show him Reddit and fell asleep. The new camera on the far side of his desk tries to entice him, draw him in, but he is avoiding it, instead drawing out the goodbye for a hiatus between himself and Old Faithful. He knows after using the CU-Boulder one, he'd need to spend a few paychecks on a new camera for himself. At three in the morning, he powers down his prized possession and closes it into his desk drawer. He picks up the loaned camera and turns it on, hitting record and spinning it around to aim at him.

Craig hasn't been around much expensive equipment, save for at Token's house. His own family is poor, but over the years he's built up a resistance of how much it can bother him. Once upon a time fat little Eric Cartman pointed a stubby finger at him and said he is the poorest kid in school, and Craig went home and reevaluated the world around him. He knew Token was better off, but it was strange to contextualize his reality on a grander scale. When Craig was in his sophomore year of high school he learned if he wanted anything of his own, he had to get a job. He's been employed at one place or another for the past six years, and all he has to show for it is an old laptop, an iPhone, a shitty camera, and eighteen expensive tattoos.

He sets the CU Boulder camera down on the desk and stares into it. He can't see himself, but he feels as though the camera can see him. They're getting to know each other. It's an introduction for the strangest of friends, and Craig can only gaze into the glass for so long before he hits 'stop' and flicks off the light, trudging to his bed and collapsing in it.

_06:45:01 Nov 12 2012_

Craig rolls onto his stomach when his alarm goes off. He drags the blankets up over his head and tries to tune out the ringing alarm, but it only lasts a few moments before he groans and sits up. He feels the punch of three hours of sleep, but tries to push past it. He'll be back in bed soon enough. It's the same routine every day.

He rubs his eyes and scratches his scalp through his thick hair before standing and pulling a sweatshirt on and slips into the nearest pair of Wall Mart imitation Vans on his floor. He wades through a room that seems only to be clean because it doesn't have much in it: a desk, a bed, a bean bag chair, a bookshelf filled mostly with movies and notebooks with screenplays or at least the ideas for them, and two cages stacked on top of each other where Gideon and Lenora live, beside it a large rodent playground. He takes a few steps into the hallway before pausing. Craig backtracks into his bedroom and looks at at the Canon sitting on his desk. Token told him never to leave it anywhere, and if he wants a good look at life in South Park, he may as well start with the butt crack of dawn.

The camera powers on in his hand and he walks out of his room and down the stairs to the kitchen where his mother and sister are sitting and eating breakfast while his father makes himself a cup of coffee. Craig stops in the doorway. The kitchen cramped, but clean. There isn't a lot of space in their house, but they don't have a lot of stuff anyway. The microwave is also a shelf for the condiments since there is no pantry but just a few overhead cabinets that are neatly filled with food, plates, and cups. The fridge doesn't have a lot in it. The walls are mostly bare of art. The curtains are thick, heavy, and plain; they are practical, not beautiful. The light is coming into the kitchen from the wrong angle, but Craig focuses the image and films his family eating around the small table. His sister is the first to notice.

"The fuck are you doing?"

"Watch your language, Savannah." Their father chastises. "Craig, what are you doing?"

Thomas Tucker is a large man, tall and broad and balding. A sparse puff of red hair sits above his otherwise serious face. He doesn't have much to say that isn't condescending, which works perfectly with his stoic wife. She is strong and tall and plain, and sometimes she seems more like a nanny than what movies tell him mothers are supposed to be. Together they play a terrible good cop, bad cop when the need arises. They're both kind of shitty cops. Savannah has skated by unaffected. Craig would like to think he has done the same.

"What are you going to do with that?" Savannah asks suspiciously, setting down her spoon and fixing him with a studying gaze which Craig ignores. He doesn't lower his camera. Instead, it zeroes in on her pale face and strawberry blonde hair, as pin-straight and plain as their mother's. She frowns like their father does, with her mouth in a bow when something is displeasing. They're all light and Irish and beautiful, which Craig most certainly is not.

"It's almost seven," He tells his sister and she slides out of her chair and drops her bowl in the sink. Craig turns and walks to the front door. He spins the camera on his dark face and says blandly, "I suspect I'm adopted."

The wind is whipping outside, flakes of fresh snow flying off the roof in the wind and pelting his exposed legs. He should have put pants on over his boxers. Craig squints as he walks down the footpath to his car in the driveway. He makes sure to pan the camera around. Yesterday the world was muddy grey as the dirt caught up to the snow, but last night brought a new layer to cover the mess. He is grateful it is not enough to require a shoveling. On mornings like these, South Park almost looks like a normal town. It looks clean and neat, and he can ignore the old, creaking buildings and half finished home projects left on people's lawns in favor of the illusion of an ethereal world. On mornings like these, Craig feels like he's in another body.

He jams the key into the lock on the door and turns slow and firm, but not too hard lest it break off again. Last time he had to snake an extension cord and his sister's hairdryer outside and warm the frozen handle as he picks the lock, which has happened on two different occasions. He slams the door shut behind him and reaches across to unlock the passenger door after he turns the engine over and blasts the heat in the white decades-old Honda Civic. Craig slumps in his seat to avoid his head hitting the ceiling of the car, and points the camera at the green front door of his tan house. The heat is fast, one of the only good things about this hand-me-down from his father. His dad bought the car when he was trying to impress Craig's future mother, and when Craig turned seventeen, Thomas Tucker decided it was time for him to buy himself a new car and give his Ole Reliable to his son. Craig doesn't think his dad's used 2002 Toyota Camry is much better, but at least he got a free car out of it.

His pack of cigarettes sit untouched in the cup holder. His hands are too occupied with the video camera for him to consider their twitching need to hold something warm.

The front door opens and with a few quick, careful steps, Savannah throws herself into the car. "Drive. And put that thing away. Are you filming me?"

Craig turns off the camera and sets it on the back seat. He flips on the radio to fill the space. Savannah says nothing as Craig drives her the ten minutes into the neighboring town to Park County's shared high school. The bus stop is nearby, but it's a cold walk, and one of the conditions Craig was forced to adhere to when given the car was that he would also tote his sister around when she needed it. Of course, she deemed every morning and most afternoons to and from school as such necessary situations, and because she's seventeen and perfect, their parents approved.

Savannah and Craig don't talk much, which Craig is grateful for. She's not the worst sibling in the world, but she's still not all that interesting. He hears enough of her crap when she occasionally makes him drive a friend or two home with her or when he has the terrible misfortune of joining his family for dinner. Craig doesn't have much to say either, so their silent arrangement works out. Overall, he kind of likes his sister. She isn't the worst thing, and Craig would maybe consider that as being a good sibling relationship, if ever such a thing existed.

"Pick me up at 3," she says, unbuckling her seatbelt and climbing out of the car almost before Craig has made a complete stop. She is gone in an instant, hurrying over to the bandroom with her flute case in hand.

The young boy in the car in front of him is taking his sweet time gathering up a large poster board and an instrument case, so Craig reaches into the back of the car and grabs the camera, turning it on and hitting record when it chimes to life. Craig sets the camera on the dashboard facing the world and fixes it in place just as the car in front of his releases their brakes. He heads home slowly, letting the camera take in the short drive through Middle Park as it transforms back into South Park in the early morning. All the traffic is to and from the schools. The town is isolated and most people don't commute out of it for work, save for a few people who work in Middle Park and North Park. At seven in the morning, South Park is empty except for the buzzing early crowd at the high school.

Craig has struggled with the car's sound system. He spent a paycheck or two getting it fixed from the mess it used to be, which also allowed him to get a scratchy CD drive that ruins all of his burned discs after a few plays. It has a rough life, so Craig lets it lie. For the past few months he hasn't had to do much driving anyway, but when he does he pushes his thoughts into film ideas. At least that stuff is safe to think about. Today, Craig thinks about his hometown on camera and what Token's viewers will think when they see the walking corpse of South Park.

He sails down the main street, where the post office and Tom's Rhinoplasty sit silently in the white morning, and up Sierra Madre with a left onto Avenue de Los Mexicanos, where his house sits near the end of the long block. Craig slowly turns up the driveway and parks. His parents' cars are gone, as always. It seems like no one commutes in South Park except his parents. His mother drives all the way up to North Park for her accounting job and his father drives halfway to Denver to manage another small town's post office. Craig locks the car behind him and pans the camera around his front lawn as he approaches the door.

Careful with the key, he enters his house and shuts the cold out. Craig sheds his sneakers as he climbs the stairs and hides himself in his room. He debates setting the camera on the dresser, but turns it off instead and plugs it into the charger waiting on his desk.

He draws his curtains and crawls into bed, pulling the thick layers of blankets over his shoulders and falling back to sleep.

_18:32:13 Nov 14 2012_

Craig barely bothers to make eye contact with Kyle when he pokes his head around the cat shelves where Kyle is talking to a customer. He lifts up an open palm to silently say he's taking his ten minute break.

Kyle doesn't respond, which Craig thanks himself for. He's been working on the art of avoiding Kyle Broflovski since he began working at PetSteps. One of his strategies is signaling to Kyle only if he's with a customer. Kyle wouldn't dare sully the store's reputation to correct or engage Craig. This way, no one can warn him not to tack an extra five minutes onto his break.

Armed with the camera he grabbed from his locker before heading out, Craig slips out the door, letting the bells sing of his absence. Once outside, Caig immediately lights a cigarette and inhales. He powers on his camera and adjusts the light settings to accommodate the suburbian darkness. Located on Highway 9, PetSteps neighbors a few other businesses and a handful of vacant lots. It takes just a few minutes of walking to pass the mostly empty parking lot his car is sitting in and behind the ruins of a Blockbuster, Craig sweeps his camera in a wide arc to take in the poorly maintained fireroad that crawls into the mountains. South Park hasn't had a wildfire since before Craig was born and it's always a shock to see the unfamiliar sight of a fire truck doing a practice drill up these steep, barely paved slopes. As long as he's known South Park, their side of the Rockies has been the wet one, seeing frequent snowfall and casual flooding the Spring.

More than familiar with the climate in his town, Craig tests the surface with the heel of his Docs just like he would back in highschool when he would come here with Token, Clyde and three empty pizza boxes they would swindle from the Whistlin' Willy's down the road. The sole of his shoe slides easily over the frozen surface and Craig smiles, letting the camera travel up the slope as he recalls the winter they spent at a solid ten. Craig was so stoned the first time he tried to surf that pizza box to the bottom of the hill that he hardly felt it when he broke his arm.

Even now, without his judgement impaired by cannabis, Craig is inspired to attempt to scale the fireroad, and he gets a running start on the salted lot below before he plants his foot on the slickness in front of him. He makes it three strides up the slope until his feet slide out from beneath him. Craig rolls to protect the Canon as he slams the black ice back first. With the wind knocked out of him, Craig remembers laying here, his arm twisted behind him, and Token calling 911 while Clyde cried, convinced they were going to be arrested and expelled and he can hear the words from Clyde's lips as if his best friend were still here in Colorado with him.

"They'll put us in separate schools. We'll never see each other again!"

Of course, none of that happened. None of their parents wanted to truly address the issue of teenaged drug use. Maybe they were too out of touch to realize it could be a problem for their kids, not just the ones they see on the fear-mongering news reports. Maybe they were still young enough to remember being teens themselves, and forgave their sons for finding false entertainment in such a boring town. Whatever it was, the only consequence the boys had to show of that day was the cast on Craig's left arm- the one that they took a pack of sharpies to the following night, shapes and colors inspired by a shared bottle of Grape Robitussin.

Craig misses Clyde.

The ice starts to melt with the heat of Craig's body pressed against it, and he regrets not pulling off his work shirt before pulling on his hoodie. He groans, sitting up and leaning his eye into the viewfinder, studying his jeans and his boots before letting the frame pan out to view the road. A few cars are speeding down the path, but slow as they rubber neck to take in the odd site of a grungy young adult and an expensive camera spending time together in a vacant lot. Craig gives them the finger, making sure the Canon captures the scene. For a moment, he feels the fiery burn of laughter in his gut, muscle memory from when he and Token and Clyde would spend their weekends intoxicated and filming themselves endangering their lives, but it is numbed away with the wet chill soaking into his underwear and Craig spits out the sour taste of fond memories.

Reluctantly, Craig rises and finds his half smoked cigarette laying in the snow beside where he fell. Tucking the camera in the crook of his elbow, Craig relights and breathes deeply. His phone barks like a dog from his pocket, the individualized text tone alerting him that Kyle has noticed he's gone over on his ten minute break and is requesting him back in the store. Craig holds the Canon from the lesser used handle along its topside, letting the camera swing gently with the motion of his body walking back towards the store. It gets the opportunity to film the footsteps Craig left on their way out, flying over them back towards their origin. He tosses his butt into the brush on the side of the highway before pushing open the door to PetSteps.

Kyle is always oranger when he's angry, a ball of contrasting heat in this cold state, looking ridiculous wrapped in the purple of his PetSteps uniform. Craig lifts the camera so he can look through the eyepiece at his angry superior and not directly at the face that stands just a few feet in front of him.

"Great," Kyle sighs. "You're soaked- what did you do, lay in the snow?"

Craig shrugs, keeping silent while he knows the camera could capture his voice.

"Go clean cages until you're dry. Don't let any customers see you. And camera off, Craig."

_21:01:34 Nov 14 2012_

Back to the wall so that his laptop screen points away from the door, Token unzips the files Craig has sent him from the last two days. His roommate is elusive and rarely spends the night in their shared dorm, but Token learned pretty quickly to not risk having Craig's footage open on his screen, especially when he has his headphones over his ears and slung around the back of his neck. The last thing Token needs is his Boulder friends snooping around his projects.

His fingers play the trackpad, cautious not to waste time skimming through mundane footage but careful not to skip anything that may be important. Routine, routine, Craig rises to take his sister to school, returns home to an empty house where he sleeps or stares at the internet before either picking his sister back up or going into work. For the first few hours of the first day Craig had his loaned camera, scenes would cut frequently, but it seems Craig has gotten lazy. They're not paying for the camera; may as well let it run.

The camera hovers at eye level as Craig drags his feet upstairs. He sets it down on his desk and spins it to face his bed. Craig is in frame for the first time since the footage began and Token watches as he holds lingering eye contact. Token can see that Craig needs to shave, and probably shower. He may even be contemplating it, as he removes every piece of his clothing. Despite being Craig's best friend, Token has spent little time in the Tucker's house and he is not sure if Craig is looking past the camera into a mirror, or if this is really just his way of telling the story. The moth on his chest has scabbed over and is starting to peel. Craig reaches over the camera for a bottle of lotion, and he winces slightly as he rubs a thin layer over his newest tattoo. It gives Token a chance to view the rest of Craig's canvas. One of Craig's first tattoos was his neck, something that shocked many of the residents of South Park. The intricate skull of an animal (guinea pig, Craig often corrects people) is surrounded by deep red roses and bright green foliage, encircling his neck and reaching up towards his large, stretched ears, which have been hanging empty for at least a year now. Craig has a small black anchor tattooed under his left eye, but people don't seem to notice it as much as they notice his neck. He steps back, more of his body coming into frame and Token's eyes glance up to make sure he's still alone in his room. His friend is tall. Really tall. In fact, Craig Tucker is the tallest person in South Park, Colorado, bringing home the trophy at an uncomfortable six foot four, and his stretched out, lanky form barely fits in the fram. Craig's long arms are both mostly covered in unrelated and unconnected tattoos. A camera, a ship, a tree, leading down to large, noisy hands that carry roses and obscenities. Just above where his hand is brushing aimlessly against his thigh, there is a gun tattoed on to Craig's hip bone, and beside it, the words "animal life" in an ornate font. Most of his right thigh is dedicated to the Virgin Mary, and his left, the outline of Colorado. When he is finished tending to his wounded chest, he backs away and collapses into bed, the mattress ending several inches before his legs do.

Token fast forwards through Craig sleeping, the increased speed making him look fitful. Sporadically inked calves kick out from under his comforter, his pillow alternates between under and above his head. He tosses and turns and after a few hours of sleep, his alarm goes off. Token has spent the last hour half-heartedly working on a homework assignment for his Documentary Film History class. When Craig reluctantly pulls himself from his bed, Token brings the footage to full screen once more.

He seems to be regretting not taking that shower now, dragging a hand through thick, greasy black hair. His fingernails scratch at the buzzed undercut that stretches three inches up from the top of his ears. Apparently, it'll do, as Craig shrugs and reaches for his work uniform where it hangs off his desk chair.

The PetSteps uniform is obnoxiously bright and pretentious but Craig's purple polo is over-worn and faded, the collar having lost all of its hold and the button holes stretched too far to keep it shut over his collarbone, giving him none of the "trustworthy animal expert" vibe its supposed to, despite those exact words being printed in white block lettering across his back. He tucks the atrocity into a pair of black slacks that have a large hole in the right knee. Token chuckles to himself, knowing Kyle would disapprove.

Craig grabs the camera and heads into the bathroom, setting the camera down so that Token is forced to study yellowing floral wallpaper to the sound of his best friend taking a piss.

Token follows Craig downstairs and into the kitchen. They stare into a mostly empty fridge for several seconds before Craig grabs a can of Monster from the back and a store-brand poptart from the pantry.

The Canon sits in the passenger seat while Craig blasts the heat in the car. He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of the center console and lights one before rolling the window down just enough to let the smoke out. Token watches Craig take one drag before his friend is grabbing for the camera once more. The responsible student in Token cringes when Craig wedges the it against the dashboard, but the artist in him appreciates it, and he flies with Craig down a snowy highway 9.

_16:37:00 Nov 16 2012_

"How are the cat cans coming?"

Craig resists the urge to throw a middle finger over his shoulder and instead twists his neck just enough to see the tall redhead standing over him eying his work. "Flawlessly," He responds, turning until he's sitting cross-legged on the cold linoleum floor, which only serves to make Kyle look more annoyed.

Kyle, in his short sleeved button down purple manager shirt, has his hands on his hips as he looks down his long nose at Craig, his big red hair a halo of some self-righteous biblical prophet. Craig hates him. He really, truly hates him. It's a fucking curse to be stuck working with Kyle Broflovski, who is the only person other than Victor Fitzgerald, the owner, who has a higher position than Craig. Craig is a mere keyholder after a year and a half of PetSteps employment, but he has responsibilities and he can tell the high school students what to do, which is always at least somewhat gratifying.

"Good," Kyle says in a clipped tone. He eyes the rolling cart stacked with trays of wet cat food cans. "You have a customer."

Craig glances over at the registers and sees Mrs. Stevens holding a large bag of cat litter and glaring around the store. He groans and climbs to his feet, walking away from Kyle. He cautiously lifts the bag out of Mrs. Stevens' arms and sets it on the counter before ringing her up. Kyle comes up behind her and with a charming smile asks if he could carry the bag to her car for her and she thanks him.

Craig is alone in the store for a few precious moments. He can't bring the camera to work, but he pulls his iPhone from his back pocket and turns on video record, aching to simulate the feeling of power the Canon gives him. Craig leaves the register and heads over to the small animals, putting his can project on hiatus. After all, it's one more hour until close and the cat cans are an eternal project. He can resume tomorrow when he comes in.

He pulls his key ring from his belt loop and unlocks the glass cages, pulling them from the wall like dresser drawers. He looks down into the rectangle and a Silkie Guinea Pig stares up at him with black eyes. Craig aims his iPhone at the creatures for a few moments before he pockets it and reaches into the cage, scooping the furry little girl out.

Craig holds her in one hand-Coraline, he's named her-and grooms her with his other hand, stroking her long hair and scratching her forehead. She crawls onto his chest and Craig shuts her cage, cradling her against him and sitting on the floor. She climbs up over his shoulder and around the back of his neck, standing and dragging her claws down the buzzed back of his head. Craig cringes and grabs Coraline, setting her on the floor.

She walks in a few curious circles before Craig carefully stands and takes out another guinea pig, a brown girl he hasn't named yet and lets her down with Coraline. He picks up his phone and films them wandering around on the floor.

"What are you doing? What happened to the cans?"

Kyle is glaring at him from the door. Craig gives him a look and ignores him, focusing on his video of the guinea pigs on the ground, picking up the flecks of dust and garbage, and chewing.

"What are they eating? That's disgusting. Craig, pick them up."

Craig sighs and scoops the girls up, placing the brown rodent back in her cage and setting Coraline on his shoulder as he walks toward the back of the store and out of Kyle's sight. It doesn't matter where he's going, as long as he's away from Kyle. The store isn't very large by pet store standards, but that means in order to have a lot of product, the aisles are cramped and difficult to navigate for anyone but a regular. It's easy to get lost down them and Craig has never had a problem wandering into the reptile section and whipping out his phone to text Clyde or read an Ask Reddit thread. It's clear that Victor was going for a bright color scheme with the yellow walls and red shelves, but the shelving units reach up too high to let the bright fluorescents reflect off them properly. It's a comfortable space for Craig, even more so since it seems to make their customers uncomfortable, but there are no other pet stores in South Park and they seem to be scarce in North and Middle Park, too, since PetSteps is near the border of South Park and no man's land along the 9 where North and Middle Park run. Craig wouldn't know, he hasn't been to either of those towns since he was a kid.

He faces dog food bags, ignoring the dig of sharp little guinea pig nails in his skin and occasionally reaching up to pet Coraline, which seems to calm her tense grip.

Kyle passes him again as he's helping out a customer that Craig doesn't bother to really look at and can't remember what they asked for, but other than that, Craig is in the clear as the store's business hours wind down. He pulls out his phone and shoots a text to Clyde, "I hate working with Kyle." He suspects he's sent this exact text or variations of it to Clyde maybe fifty times in the past, but he feels it can never be stated enough. Besides, he doesn't use Twitter or Facebook so Clyde is the perfect outlet. Craig has never asked if it's okay or bothered to apologize, but Clyde has mentioned more than once that he doesn't mind, so Craig feels comfortable sending him the kinds of thoughts that are generally considered too trivial to share.

Not too much later, Clyde responds, "Sorry bro :( Imagine putting a guinea pig in his hair?" A few seconds later, Clyde shuts down Craig's thought process, "Don't actually do it!" Craig rolls his eyes and pockets his phone.

The last hour of being open before closing passes quickly, he spends most of the time reading ingredients on the back of dog treat bags, and Craig only has to ring up one customer. Before long, he's locking the door and pushing the squeaky cat can cart into the backroom where he can see Kyle doing paperwork in the office. The redhead looks up at him and down at his wrist watch. "Alright," He says as he stands and Craig walks away before Kyle gets the impression that they can walk together to the front of the store.

Kyle hits a few buttons and opens the register. Craig knows the code, he's a closer when Kyle and Victor aren't there, but he still has to observe someone else doing it. The lights in the store dim, and Craig has to lean back against the counter for space to watch Kyle count his till. His fingers move at an unreal speed. It almost seems impossible that Kyle could count the cash that flies through his fingers in a fan, especially with those long, bony digits. Kyle's hands may be thin, but his arms are slim and solid looking. Craig knows Kyle plays basketball, he, Clyde, Stan, Gary, and Token used to shoot hoops after school every once in a while in high school, which annoyed Craig because basketball was stupid and he wasn't built to play sports, so he'd chain smoke in the parking lot on cold days waiting for Token and Clyde to be finished. Somewhere in Kyle's weird viney body are muscles and a shadow of a farmer's tan. God, he hates him.

"Count this," Kyle says, not looking at him but handing him the wad of cash, their palms touching uncomfortably, as he moves onto the coins. Craig hesitates before taking it from him. Craig has to count slower, slap each bill on the counter and mouth the numbers. He's bad at math like he is at most things, but it's just another shitty thing about himself. He learns to deal.

Craig eyes Kyle over his counting process, in between the fives and the tens, and takes in his big-ish ears hidden under his hair and his big nose. Kyle looks ridiculous. It's amazing that he thinks he's so damn great. Craig returns to counting and the second he finishes, Kyle asks, "How much?"

"$105."

Kyle looks up at the computer then grabs the bills from Craig's hands and counts them again. He watches Kyle note on the register slip, "$110."

Craig goes to point out the intentional mucking of his mediocre register scores, but realizes Kyle is just avoiding conversation, which is a miraculous thing that Kyle seemed to only recently learn how to do. They used to bicker constantly, and it typically started with Kyle trying to make what he probably thought was casual conversation, but Craig hates small talk. Craig hates most and all people so the idea of chit chatting just to fill space and a cultural idea of formalities is stupid. Now, rather than have a conversation about what Craig's doing wrong, he just corrects it.

Kyle bags all the money up and returns to the back office, leaving Craig alone again.

Craig sets Coraline down on the counter and pulls out his phone, filming her as she grooms herself and then straightening up and panning the lens around the store. It's an odd place, but it's kind of warm to him. He likes familiarity. Craig leaves Coraline where she is so he can travel up and down the aisles. He debates panning up and down to get the full effect, but the narrow aisles and tall shelves get the point across best when he's moving straight ahead. As he walks the store, he notices a few things out of place but doesn't bother to fix them.

He stands in the small, dark aquatics section, where with the lights dimmed after close, the area illuminated by the blue backlights in the tanks. Craig stands in the darkness, holding his phone up to the wall of tanks and tries to focus on them properly. He knows the Canon camera could probably do it, but he tries anyway.

Sometimes in Craig's life, the same thing day after day, he sees things in illuminating colors. Sometimes he imagines everything isn't so drab. He's never been much into comic books, but video games are a good way to pass time and movies are pretty cool. His imagination is limited, but standing in the aquatics section after close always make him feel heavy. He could stand there all night if it didn't make him so uncomfortable.

"Craig? Are you done? Can you put the guinea pig away?"

He pockets his phone and sweeps his eyes across the tanks one more time before heading to the front of the store. Kyle is waiting with a Northface jacket pulled over his uniform and his trapper hat over his wild hair, his lips curled down. Coraline is trying to climb the register and Craig picks her up and carries her to the small animals section. He gingerly sets her down in her tank and walks deliberately slow to the back to clock out.

When he finally reaches the front of the store, Kyle is standing with his key in the door and buried in his phone. Craig decides against jibing at him, that's too much like small talk, and he opens the door himself and walks away, hearing Kyle step out the lock it behind him. Kyle doesn't bother to say anything to him. Sometimes they make eye contact an acknowledgement of parting, but this time it's nothing. It's easier to Craig to push the work part of his day out of mind if he just leaves it without preamble.

Craig walks around to the back where his car is parked in the small lot and climbs in, turning the dials on the heat and the radio to get the warm air blasting and the fuzzy Denver alt rock station blasting. He speeds home with the windows down.

_11:14:59 Nov 17 2012_

Token listens as Kyle leans back his desk chair. He cracks his back and sighs audibly. Token spins around in his own chair to face him.

"How's the paper?"

"Tedious," Kyle shrugs, pushing his laptop away from him and marking the page in his text book before setting it on top of the spare desk in Token's basement that has practically become his in the past few years. He spends more time at his friend's working on homework than in his actual house, where his focus is scattered. When Kyle started spending more time at Token's house, looking for a refuge from his eighty hours a week at school and work, Token bought him a desk and a chair and cleared space for him in his cluttered studio. They spend many evenings here, Token editing one project or another, and Kyle quietly and dutifully working his way towards an Associates in Social Work. "What are you doing now?"

"Taking notes," Token answers, swinging a pad of yellow lined paper around in his hand and using it to gesture at his screens. Craig almost never stops filming and Token is a few days behind him, trying to work his way through all of the footage by playing two six-hour chunks of his day side by side on the monitors. He takes note of time stamps of important scenes or particular shots he finds intriguing.

Kyle's eyes seem to be curiously taking in the footage. He is not unfamiliar with Token watching and editing footage of his old classmates and fellow South Park residents, but Token knows Kyle has a strained relationship with Craig, and it has to be interesting to see him in his own habitat. One screen plays through a party Craig went to a few nights before. Token has watched it once or twice already, but there are a few good shots of high school alumni and he's cutting portions to prepare for his Thanksgiving party. On the other screen, he fast forwards through Craig's drive home from dropping Savannah off. At double time, he moves up the stairs and loses his jeans as he closes his bedroom door. The camera assumes it's usual position on the desk, and Craig sits down there, opening his laptop and staring at the screen. Token lets it run at regular speed.

Eternally concerned with the business of others, Kyle wheels his chair over to Token's desk and takes a break from his homework. Token pulls a few shots of Stan and Kenny laughing with Gary, who seems to be charming them with an anecdote. He grabs a few seconds of Esther and Milly dancing to someone's laptop speakers, knowing they have to be pretty drunk to let go like this. It's ordinary footage, but he knows it will make people smile and coo at the screen Wednesday night.

"What the fuck is that!"

Token's attention is brought to the other monitor when Kyle shouts and points. Token sighs, pressing his lips together and nodding knowingly. "That," he explains to his friend, "is masturbation."

Kyle watches, his mouth open in horror. Craig has moved from the desk to his bed, bringing his laptop with him. His boxers are already pulled down beneath his hips and he absentmindedly strokes himself as he scrolls through porn websites. He settles on a video and leans back against his headboard.

"That's gay porn, Token. Those are two men fucking."

"You are correct."

"How is this not freaking you out?" Kyle asks in disbelief. Token has simply gone back to editing on the other screen.

"It's just Craig doing what we all do all the time."

"Why does he film himself doing this?"

"He never turns the camera off," Token replies.

Despite the plethora of new information on his coworker, Kyle's fascination seems to wear off quickly, as did Token's the first time he saw this. Craig is not interesting when he masturbates. He spends up to an hour looking for the right video and when he finds it, he is lazy, lacking passion and will often lose focus and start staring at Tumblr on his phone rather than watching the video. Token went through this more than once, hoping for a little insight into the instinctual, feral part of Craig he rarely sees, but all he finds, time after time, is his best friend, disinterested and self-loathing. Despite his empty house, he keeps the porn on mute, playing shitty alternative rock to hide whatever sounds he thinks he may make. He stops periodically to try and find a new video, scratch his balls or eat a handful of hot cheetos. Watching Craig masturbate is like having teeth pulled: boring, uncomfortable, and frequently painful.

Kyle kicks away from the desk and returns to his homework.

Over an hour passes when Kyle notices that Craig is standing, his laptop closed on the bed. He is putting on his PetSteps uniform. The timestamp at the bottom of the film tells him this footage is from yesterday. Token knows Kyle worked with Craig last night, having received the video he took with his iPhone in a text message this morning.

"Did he come?" Kyle blurts out in frustration.

"No," Token says, glancing at his notes. "He tried for an hour and forty-one minutes before giving up."

"Oh my god!"

"Pretty typical. He spends a few hours doing this every day before he picks his sister up or goes to work. He almost never finishes. Just pulls up his pants and moves on. I know this routine. He'll try to take a piss, he'll eat a poptart, he'll drive to work."

Token studies Kyle's expression. He can see the thorny ball of pity sitting in his friend's throat.

"And I'll bet you anything he doesn't wash his hands."

Kyle spins around in his chair and gags into his open palms.

_15:00:02 Nov 18 2012_

He doesn't need an alarm to wake him up in time to pick Savannah up from school, but it serves as a reminder to rip him away from Skyrim and put on some pants. Craig saves, stands, stretches, and seeks out some clothes. A pair of loose black jeans hanging over his desk chair will do him just fine. He pulls them over his boxers and slips into sneakers. He grabs the video camera from where it sits on his desk, aimed at him playing the game for the past four hours, and checks the battery. It's getting low. He swaps it out for the alternate, which has been charging in a wall outlet, and carries the camera out of the room, letting the lens swoop to catch sight of Gideon and Lenora as he passes them. After he dropped Savannah off at school, he tried to sleep as he does most days, but he fell asleep sometime around one the night before because the movie he was watching wasn't as engaging as he thought it would be, and it dragged him into a pretty deep sleep. When he returned from his morning duty, he took a box of Food 4 Less brand Cheerios up to his room and browsed tumblr for a while before deciding on video games. It was a pretty normal day, and Craig was glad that he had it all to himself.

He climbs in his car and speeds off toward the high school, the camera lying on the seat watching him drive with the radio blasting. This time of day causes the drive to take longer than he wants it to, and he seems to hit every red light. As his car vibrates at the white line, Craig opens his phone and stares at Reddit until the lights turns green. He arrives just after her 4:15 pickup request, but when he sees the door to the band room shut tight, he texts her "What time?" Within a minute she responds, "4:45-ish." Craig groans and slides down in the seat.

After idling at the curb for a few minutes, he puts the car in park. There are signs all over that tell him not to do what he's doing, but he gets out of his car anyway. He's been sitting for most of the day, it feels nice to stretch his legs. He slips his hand into the strap on the video camera and faces the school, sure to capture the building in the shot the best he can from up so close.

Craig isn't only familiar with the band room's location because of his sister, but he mostly put his high school experience behind him. Before Craig narrowed his social circle down to only Token Black and Clyde Donovan, he had a few friends. They were more like good-ish acquaintances, but Craig has considered Jimmy Valmer, Kevin Stoley, and Jason Farmer to be people he doesn't hate too much. South Park High doesn't really have the teams for the band to support, but Jimmy made a pretty decent drum major and Kevin wasn't a bad tuba player. Craig would sometimes find himself sitting in the band room with them before class. He'd never say much, as always, but he didn't hate hanging out with them so long as Token or Clyde were there. Craig never woke up early to join his friends before class, but he heard it was fun, or as fun as waking up at six could be.

The lens passes over the door, blue and unassuming, like it could be a fire door if it wasn't for the fact that it would be propped open before and after the class as an invitation for its hyper-sexualized geeks to come and go, and moves onto a window into an empty classroom. Craig thinks he may have had a class in there once, possibly History or Spanish, but that isn't important. He steps up to the window and tries to focus the camera into the room despite the sun inching over to his side of the school building and reflecting on the glass. He can see enough of the room to be satisfactory, but it isn't quite right. He moves on.

Park County High is mostly one winding level. Beyond the classroom is a courtyard with a bench and a tree, banned stubs of cigarettes littering the ground beneath them. He always wanted to cut class and smoke illegally there, but it only worked out a few times and for only a few short moments. After all, there are windows into classrooms surrounding the courtyard, so there were always nosy kids or sadistic teachers, but sometimes that made it more fun. Craig would slouch on the bench with his knees wide and a cigarette between his lips knowing he was at the center of a hundred gazes. He was in plain sight and for a moment, no one noticed him, and then they all did. It was inspiring. It made him want to film.

Craig leaves the courtyard by following the small concrete path passed a few classrooms. One of them has a club going on, so he steps up to the window and films for a moment before a girl notices him. He simply moves on and he hits the several sets of doors leading to the foyer. He tries the doors but they are locked from the outside. Craig holds the camera to the small, cross hatched windows and shows the world the sparse trophy case of Park County High wins and the banners for Park County, and posters on the wall that urge students to attend basketball games and tennis matches to support the high school''s dying sports culture. Funding is down, and the Park County schools can mostly only afford to play each other, which initially started a huge feuding rivalry that was bogged down with boredom by the time Craig entered high school.

There are framed photographs of the classes that pass through. A double frame contains a photo of a freshman class and its senior picture four years later. In a school that only has between twenty and thirty kids per class, it's an intimate gesture. He can almost spot himself standing in the back row of a set of pictures. Always the tall kids, he, Token, Kyle, Milly, and Terrance Mephesto. The kids in the back always look stoic and freakish while the shorter kids look attractive. It's a rare occurrence when Eric Cartman is one of the best looking people in a group.

"Hey! What are you doing? Craig Tucker?"

Craig turns around and sees a teacher looking at him through an open classroom window. He realizes how suspicious he must look, so he turns the camera on the teacher before turning and walking back to his car. Just as the teacher is leaving his sight, he recognizes him as Mr. Mackey, who moved over to the high school as guidance counselor and substitute teacher. Craig speeds up his pace a bit a climbs back in his car, locking the doors and looking down at the camera in his hands. The last thing he needs is someone talking to him, especially an adult who's known him all his life.

He turns the key in the ignition, ready to pull away from the curb and wait elsewhere, but the band room door opens and a few kids file out. Craig decides he can wait for Savannah, assuming she doesn't take forever to leave.

In a few moments, Savannah walks out with two friends, a boy and a girl that Craig vaguely recognizes. He's pretty bad with faces and he thinks Savannah has a lot of friends, but he can't really be sure. Craig and Savannah make eye contact and she stops to talk to her friends. Craig groans and turns the camera on them.

She's chatting with a short black haired boy and an extremely tall and stooping blonde girl. Savannah is kind of a cool girl, Craig knows she's smart and she was in an almost-relationship with a boy on the baseball team, but she has her band friends too, and they seem pretty far beneath her on the social chain. Savannah is about as impassive as Craig is, but often times he doesn't understand her. She's smart, she's cold, and yet she still hangs around other kids and manages to smile about it. It seems very strange.

Some other kids are leaving the band room, and Craig eyes them all through the LCD screen on the camera. He doesn't recognize any of them, which is probably a good thing. Savannah laughs a little and looks at Craig. She catches sight of the camera and rolls her eyes. She approaches the car, leaving her friends on the sidewalk. She knocks on the window. Craig doesn't roll it down or turn the camera away from her.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, Frankenstein?" She says through the muffling glass.

Craig watches her get flustered, her pale eyebrows knitted and angry. Her friends are watching over her shoulder, looking blatantly uncomfortable about the whole thing. Savannah is always like this so her friends ought to get used to it.

"We need a ride, creep. Drop us off at Ike's house. Craig!"

He unlocks the door and Savannah climbs in the front seat, leaving her awkward friends to come forward and get in the backspace. He doesn't apologize for the broken seatbelt on the side, just lets the girl try to latch it for the entire ride, Savannah giving loud instructions as Craig navigates the simple roads. The camera is set on the dash, facing everyone in the car. Savannah complains about it, but doesn't do anything. "This is what I've been talking about. See? I'm not making this up. My brother is insane."

Neither kid in the back says anything, and Craig doesn't imagine they will. He eyes them through the rearview mirror. There is a possibility that Savannah has been friends with them for years as Craig is unobservant, but they're both looking out of their respective windows, probably trying to avoid the direct gaze of the camera, which is kind of annoying but Craig can work with the occasional reluctant subject. It makes the film more real.

Savannah demands he pulls up in front of a olive green house marked 1002. When Craig stops the car, everyone hastily climbs out. Savannah stares at him for a moment before she says, "I'll have Ike's brother drop me off or something," and slams the door.

Craig films her as she joins her friends following the boy inside. He sets the video camera back on the dash after the front door shuts and he drives off back toward his house. South Park is small and winding, and he only has to make a few turns through the neighborhood before he's pulling into his driveway. It's only a few steps before he's back in his room and can bury himself in Skyrim again. It's always nice to have a day off from work.

_20:30:09 Nov 19 2012_

PetSteps is painfully quiet tonight. It's supposed to snow tonight, and no matter how many years people have spent in the frozen Hell that is South Park, people still act like the world is ending when another foot of snow is announced. Very few customers come in on nights like these. Those who do, are in a panic and stock up on pet food for the next three months. They're a half hour from closing and Craig is bored. He wishes he could sit down and stare at Reddit on his phone, his feet hurt and verifying the prices on pet shampoo is a tedious job. He finds himself picking each bottle up and reading every ingredient to pass the time, a bad habit he's formed in the past few years.

"Can we go home yet?"

Craig turns around from where he's standing in front of the grooming salon and glares at the cash register where Fillmore is standing, looking bored. He's irritated by the question mostly because wants to leave just as much as Fillmore does, but Kyle opens in the morning, and if it's obvious Craig let them leave early, he's going to be facing a hot-tempered red head in the morning and most likely, he'll be too hungover to tolerate it. A high school kid he's met a few times is throwing a little party tonight. There should be a good amount of his old classmates there, and he knows he can get a little footage for Token's project. He wonders if that's why Fillmore wants to get out of here, too. Firkle and Fillmore are probably around the same age, if not in the same class. Part of Craig is disgusted with being twenty-one and attending the parties thrown by local seventeen year olds, but that's the definition of South Park: the young run the town and the adults act like children.

"Have you been facing?"

"Yes," Fillmore sighs. "All day. It's been dead."

"Stay on register. I'm going to walk your section and make sure it's done right."

Craig fingers the ring of keys clipped to his hip as he walks away from the register, as if the tinkling of metal was meant to remind Fillmore that Craig is in charge right now. Not many of his coworkers take him seriously. They will begrudgingly take direction to work a certain part of the store or to take their lunch break, but most of the high schoolers he's in charge of have learned rather quickly that Craig is about as interested in the success of the store as they are. He can feign regard for the rotation of expiration dates on bags of dog treats or the way the leashes have been reorganized at the end of the night, but the bottom line is that all Craig really cares about is making sure no one touches the guinea pigs but himself and that they get out of the store no later than 9:15 pm.

He's already counted all of the tills, so he cringes when he hears a customer enter the store. He's going to have to recount Fillmore's, but that's okay. As along as he finishes everything else, they should be able to get out of here far before the typical 10:30 pm that Kyle drags their nights to. He fetches a mop and bucket from a storage room and does not bother to change the opaque grey water. The store doesn't look terrible, so all Craig has to do is spot mop up the piss left by irresponsible dog owners and straighten the occasional can of dog food. It takes him twenty minutes to check each aisle, including the five minutes it took him to help the customer find their particular formula of cat food to best suite their fat ass, hairball gagging, finicky cat. The store is acceptable at best; it's not the PetSteps of Kyle's fantasies, but he'll just have to jerk off to something else tomorrow morning, because Craig wants to get out of here.

"Are we all clear?" Craig asks loudly from the back of the store when he hears the door open and close again.

"All clear!" is Fillmore's hopeful answer.

"Lock the door and bring your till to the office," Craig tells him, pushing the mop back to the utility closet. While in there, he opens a fridge that contains nothing but perishable pet food. He reaches beyond a few tubs of mealworms to grab at a bag of carrots. Snagging two, he leaves the room and stops by the guinea pigs, handing one carrot to a wheeking Coraline and picking up the small brown girl for a moment. She is purring quietly and Craig smiles. She's starting to open up. "Celeste," he names her aloud. "I brought you a carrot."

"Hurry the fuck up," Fillmore shouts from the office, "or I'm going to start pocketing this cash."

Craig knows it's an empty threat so he rolls his eyes and takes a few moments to continue loving on the pigs before giving them both their treats and locking the cage for the night. "Eat it all," he warns them. "I don't want to get in trouble for giving you extra."

In the office, Fillmore leans back against the door and Craig flips through the cash without really counting it. He hands it to Fillmore and tells him to count it. When the teenager tells him "$220" Craig writes it down, handing him another pile of uncounted cash. The numbers look believable, so Craig shuts down the registers from the back computer and bags the day's cash. He opens the heavy metal door under the desk and trades the bag of money for the Canon, which has been patiently waiting out his shift in the safety of the PetSteps safe.

"Okay," Craig says, slamming it shut. "Let's go. Out the back door, God forbid there's a customer trying to get in."

They dress in their winter clothes as they walk from the office to the back of the store, the camera being passed back and forth between Craig's hands as he pulls on a hoodie and a cheap, fake black leather jacket he found at a thrift store last week. He sets the camera down on a shelf for long enough to unlock the back door and pull his hat on. Fillmore is gone, in his car and peeling out of the small parking lot. It's snowing pretty heavily already, but Craig leaves his gloves in his pocket. He looks through the viewfinder of the camera, observing his lonely white car sitting in the dark parking lot, lit slightly by one streetlight that's across the highway. A breeze blows some of the new dusting towards him and he feels flakes melt against his ankles as the wind travels a few inches up the legs of his slacks. November is the worst in South Park.

In the car, Craig has to rock back and forth with his hands pressed between his thighs for a moment. It is freezing and the heater is still blowing cold air. He is too cold to pick up his phone, so he reads the warning label about the airbags in his car. He wonders if they'd actual deploy anymore. As soon as the air blowing is slightly warmer than the air of the car, Craig disrobes. He pulls off his work shirt and replaces it with a heather grey v-neck. He puts his navy blue hoodie back on but leaves the jacket off, just grabbing his gloves out of the pocket and shoving them into his cup holder. He kicks out of his slacks and pulls on a pair of jeans that have been living in his car the past few weeks. He wasn't planning on changing his pants, but the parakeets shit all over him while he was cleaning the cage. He smells the denim stretched over his thighs after he fastens them. They don't smell great, but it's better than feces.

_21:22:12 Nov 19 2012_

Craig doesn't know Firkle that well, but he's probably at his house once a month. He knows he's a senior at Park County High. He knows he's the colorful and eccentric Mexican kid that likes to party. He knows his parents go out of town frequently. That all adds up to Craig knowing exactly how to get to his house for the frequent parties Firkle throws.

He has to park his car almost a whole block down, the street already packed with the borrowed and beaten up automobiles of South Park's youth. Clearly this party is larger than he expected.

To battle the bite of the nighttime cold, Craig lights a cigarette as he walks. He films the inside of each car as he passes it, trying to make guesses at whose it is by the contents of the vehicle. He sees what is clearly Fillmore's car, his purple work shirt thrown over the passenger seat, discarded until the next time he must wear it, much like Craig did a few minutes earlier. Craig passes the car of an athlete, zooming in briefly on a PCH basketball bag and shoulder pads in the backseat. He films the interior of a car that is decorated in a furry leopard steering wheel cover and another that has a large, neon green pair of fuzzy dice. Craig frowns at the conventional expression of South Park's bourgeois. Whenever he passes a car that would list for more than five grand at the used car lot on the edge of town, Craig doesn't bother to turn the camera to it; it's clearly the driver's parents'. Right outside of Firkle's house, Craig sees Stan Marsh's car. He peers the lens through the window and finds nothing of interest, but Craig stops there to finish his cigarette. After the last drag, Craig pushes the slow burning butt into a bank of snow that has been pushed up along the curb. He knows when the snow finally melts in the late Spring, hundreds of cigarettes will litter the streets of South Park. For now, they disregard.

He taps his fingers on the hood of Stan's 2006 Black Jeep Liberty and turns to head inside. There is a handwritten note telling him to "come in and close the door. It's fucking cold outside."

As soon as Craig enters the house, he realizes this may have been a bad idea. There are masses of people he does not recognize. He lowers his camera and holds it to his chest, protecting it from wandering elbows or sloshing drinks. It is sweltering with the number of bodies in the house and Craig pulls his jacket off, draping it over his shoulder so he doesn't have to leave it on the communal coat hook in the front. Bits of conversation answer Craig's confusion about the quantity of people. These are friend's of Firkle's; many are a year or two older than him and back from their first year of college. They're home earlier than all of the students from his class, but he supposes his friends did this their first year of university too; they get back fast so they can brag about getting out. They're spewing lore about what they've been up to, how cool Los Angeles, Chicago, Seattle, Houston is, how much they've changed. Craig quickly feels himself growing irritated, so he moves in a direct line towards the kitchen for a drink.

Firkle's house is larger than a lot of the homes in South Park, but it's crowded tonight, and Craig feels himself growing claustrophobic. He has to push through the thin pockets of space between the various clusters of friends catching up. As always, many eyes fall to Craig. These kids were still in middle school when Craig was graduating high school, so very few of them have seen the absurdly tall, dark haired man covered in tattoos. He realizes by the looks of confusion from a few of the party-goers that a lot of these kids must be from Middle Park. Most South Park residents don't flinch at his appearance anymore. The gazes don't linger for long though, too occupied with recounting the tales of freshman glory. They're smiling, laughing, flirting, tilting their heads back and draining their red plastic cups. There is nothing of interest to film here.

Finally, he reaches the kitchen table. Pointing the camera at the twenty some bottles of alcohol, Craig feels relieved that it'll go mostly unnoticed that he didn't bring anything. One handed, he pours himself a sprite and vodka and takes a heavy sip before topping it off.

"Craig M-m-mother fucking Tucker!"

A metal crutch thunks against the back of Craig's calves and he turns around to face Jimmy Valmer, who is leaning forward and grinning at him from several feet below.

"Oh," Craig hesitates, "Hey."

"Nice camera! Is it yours? An upgrade, huh?"

"Token's," Craig nods. "We're working on a new project."

Jimmy seems to be contemplating that statement, staring Craig up and down in that judgmental way he always did in high school, standing a little too close, and rocking forward on his crutches whenever he's about to speak. Craig regrets saying anything, and hopes Jimmy drops the subject.

"W-well?! How've you been?"

"Fine, I guess," Craig begins, but he is interrupted by Jason, who walks over to them from the other side of the kitchen. He is double fisting beers, and offers one to Jimmy, who takes a sip and hands it back. Craig glares at Jason, constantly irritated by the presence of the other man. His inability to stand Jason began in high school, around the time that a haircut and some well fitting clothes skyrocketed Jason into the ranks of the most attractive men at school. Since then, Craig's hatred has grown, and it takes just one wide smile over his artistically scruffy jawline to put Craig in a foul mood.

"Craig! How's South Park been?" Jason asks. "Are you still working at PetSteps?"

"It's fine, and yes," Craig answers. He lifts his cup to his lips and downs half of it, hoping the alcohol will dull the grating voices of his old high school friends. They are staring at him, and Craig realizes they're waiting.

"Um, how's school?"

That's all it takes. Jimmy and Jason launch into alternating stories about roommates, papers, parties, internships, and Craig is able to tune them out, nodding occasionally and nursing his drink. He used to be close to these guys, but it's been years. Their friendships began to fade long before they left for college, and Craig feels like this conversation is arbitrary and unnecessary. They only initiated this conversation to brag about their lives; Craig knows they're not interested in anything about his. He finishes his drink and pours himself another.

"Well, it's been great catching up," Craig says loudly, unsure if he's interrupting someone or filling a silence. He flashes a smile. "I'll see you guys around."

Camera in one hand and drink in the other, Craig moves as quickly towards the stairs as he can without spilling his drink. There are a few people sitting scattered on the steps, but for the most part, as he ascends the staircase, the density of human bodies per square foot lessens greatly. He is grateful to move away from the music and madness of the party downstairs. He films the dim hallway, three doors on either side and one on the end. A handsy couple disappears into one of the rooms and from another, emerges a girl with tears streaming down her face. She glares at Craig when he points the camera at her, and he flips her off as she jogs downstairs.

The last door on the right is Firkle's bedroom. Craig is familiar with its location, often ending up here when he attends his parties. The door is slightly ajar, and he pushes it open with his foot so he can slide inside. Leaning back on it, he closes the door behind him.

"Hey," Stan nods at him. "Join us."

The room is set up the same way most of South Park's young adults' rooms are. There is a twin bed pressed up against the wall that has the only window. There is a small desk and an office chair opposite of that, with a desk lamp and a few textbooks. For those with slightly affluent parents, like Firkle's, there is sometimes a small couch or futon by the door, and this is where Craig takes an open seat beside Stan. They are in a makeshift circle, some people sitting on the floor, but most elevated on an office chair or the edge of the bed. Craig makes note of Milly, Pete, Kenny, Michael and two kids he doesn't know, most likely because they're younger than he is. He points the camera at each face in the room until he is jarred out of the viewfinder.

"Come on, man. Put the fucking camera away. I don't need this shit on record."

Craig glares at Kenny, and goes through the motions of powering his camera down before setting it on the floor between his feet. Kenny seems to be skeptical, but doesn't call Craig out on the camera that is still recording from the floor.

"Alright," Kenny says, picking up a conversation that Craig's presence apparently interrupted. He is facing Michael and digging through a backpack that is hooked over his thighs. "What did you want?"

Craig watches the exchange happening in front of him, adjusting the Canon between his shoes so that he can check in the viewfinder and ensure that it is capturing the wad of cash leave Michael's hands and slide into the front pocket of Kenny's overworn, acid wash jeans. Kenny reaches into his backpack and removes a ziploc bag and Craig estimates that it's probably an ounce of marijuana. "And one for the road," Kenny grins at him, passing his customer an already rolled joint.

Michael tucks his purchase away and sits back to light his blunt. He and Pete pass it back and forth for a few hits. They offer a pass to Stan who declines with a slight lift of his hand. He seems occupied with the brushed silver flask that hangs loosely in his grip. Craig watches him knock back another shot. Sitting closely beside him, he can smell the alcohol and it makes Craig long for more than the two drinks he currently has working for him. Milly is slouched back against the headboard of Firkle's bed, a small styrofoam cup in her hand. This alerts Craig to presence of good news, and his eyes shift back to Kenny.

"Yeah," Kenny answers the question behind his eyes. "I have more."

Craig digs for his wallet. He wasn't planning on making much of a purchase tonight, having hoped to work off of the kindness of stoners to get himself a good green high, but Kenny isn't always in stock of his favorite drug, so he knows he needs to get it while he can. Craig is not ignorant to the smirk on Kenny's face as he fingers through a stack of bills. South Park, a town seemingly stuck in the 70s, still has many shops that will only take cash. Residents are used to having a couple twenties in their pockets at all times. Craig is sure Kenny profits off of impulse buys all the time, just like he is now.

"What do you have?" Craig asks for clarification, the money in his hand and his camera strategically and inconspicuously capturing the scene.

"Prome with Code and DXM," Kenny answers. "Full bottles only."

"Fuck," Craig groans. "How much for the good stuff?"

"One hundred a bottle."

"Come on!" Craig protests. He looks to Stan for help, who shakes his head and refuses to be a part of it.

"It's only ten bucks for a bottle of Robitussin. Your choice."

Of course, he gives in. Craig hands Kenny five twenties and Kenny passes back a palm-sized plastic bottle, containing a thick red liquid prescribed to a name he's never heard before. He briefly considers trying circumvent Kenny and get a prescription for cough syrup himself, but he knows from experience it's almost impossible to fake strep. He wonders how Kenny gets ahold of so many bottles at a time. Fake IDs? Malpractice? Regrettably, Craig must admit to himself that is doesn't have the motivation to deal drugs, despite the pay off. There's a bottle in Milly's hand, and another sitting between Wes and Michael. That means Kenny has already made well over three-hundred dollars tonight, and that isn't counting all of the weed.

"And, for free," Kenny adds, as if trying to ease the burn of the purchase. "Supplies."

Craig leaves the couch, and abandons his camera, for just long enough to brew his potion. In a small styrofoam cup, Craig pours an inch of the maroon syrup and pads the rest of the cup with Sprite. Craig chooses a cherry jolly rancher from the bag on the floor and unwraps it, popping the candy in his mouth and sucking for a few seconds before spitting it into his drink. By the time he is back on the couch, Craig feels aroused with anticipation.

Stan offers his flask for a toast, and Craig shakes his head, but lifts his cup regardless. "Clink," Craig adds apathetically, and together, he and Stan drink.

Any conversation that happens in Firkle's bedroom that night goes entirely unnoticed by Craig. After a cup and a half, Craig is leaning back against the couch, his eyes half shut. His body feels heavy, but he is entirely carefree. His shoes fit just right, his jeans feel warm and embrace him in a way that makes Craig believe he could wear this pair of jeans for the rest of his life. The couch seems to gently sway beneath him, and a weak smirk creeps across Craig's lips as he rides the euphoria of a codeine high. He is high enough now that he doesn't taste the medicine in his mix, and Craig finishes his second cup, taking the jolly rancher between his lips and rolling it back and forth in his mouth. His eyes fall shut and Craig counts the beats of his heart until he loses track. When his eyes reopen, the room seems to have shifted, the walls illuminated blue. His body tingles and vibrates softly as he looks around and sees that Kenny is at the desk, poking around on Firkle's computer and answering a text. Wes and Michael have vanished, but Milly and the kids he doesn't know are on the bed, quietly laughing about something. Stan is now laying prone on the couch beside Craig. He seems to be asleep. That is usually Craig's signal that it's time to go home. He checks his camera, and it reads 01:02:12 Nov 20 2012. He could wait out this high here, or he could enjoy it at home. Craig stands, grabs his camera, and leaves without saying goodbye.

_17:00:01 Nov 20 2012_

Token does not spin around in his chair when he hears Kyle descending the stairs to his studio, too occupied with a thought that seems to be just out of reach. His pencil hovers over a piece of paper, his eyes locked on a footage of Craig sitting in his bed, slouched against the wall.

"Your mom made us some chocolate milk," Kyle chuckles, setting a glass down beside Token. Kyle takes his own cup to his desk, placing it down gently before systemically pulling textbooks out of his bag and stacking them in order of priority.

Token finally releases the breath he has been holding, his wrestling thoughts unable to come to an agreement. He takes a long sip of the milk and leans back in his seat, eyes still locked on the screen.

Craig is scrolling through a folder on the desktop of his computer labeled "to watch." Many of the films in the folder are ones Token has recommended. Others, things Craig has either learned about online or randomly selected based on title. All of them have been pirated. He chooses something with a title in another language and Token rolls his eyes. Craig has a thing for films with pretty colors, and not a whole lot of story. He doesn't doubt the potential of a foreign film to have a good plot, but Craig never reads the subtitles. In fact, Token would bet money that Craig intentionally watches foreign films so he can ignore the plot. Token watches the screen and through the eyes of the Canon on Craig's bedside table, he watches Craig, watch a film with a windy beach and a gloomy sky. What bullshit.

"How was work?" Token asks, finally turning to face Kyle.

"Fine, until Craig got there, and then it was shit," Kyle grins. Token knows he's teasing, but he also knows there's a wicked streak in Kyle- a part of him that can see right through Craig to his very core, and Token isn't sure Kyle always likes what he sees there. "He pissed some customer off by refusing to take his coupon that expired yesterday. I know, Craig- I know he'll take expired coupons; I'm the one fucking counting his registers each week. He refused this coupon just so this fucker would ask to speak to a manager, because he knew I was trying to get a headstart on this paper tonight and Craig doesn't have enough going on in his own life that he has to try to knock people who do."

"Easy, babe," Token chuckles.

"Sorry," Kyle says sincerely. "Sometimes I forget he's your friend."

"I can imagine he's hard to work with," Token acknowledges, watching as Craig aimlessly digs his hands into a bag of microwave popcorn.

"Technically," Kyle corrects him, "you work with him all the time."

"He's hard to work with," Token nods, smirking at his friend.

Kyle's focus seems to be drawn away from his work and to Token's screen. The way the camera is positioned, all they can see is a tilted view of Craig's laptop screen and his arms from the elbow down. Token watches as Craig pauses the film occasionally, taking screenshots of frames he finds appealing. Craig seems to like scenes where the subject is off center. This particular film is using a lot of negative space, and Token watches as Craig's fingers hit the hot keys repeatedly.

"He puts on a good act for me, though," Token indulges. "I think he tries to intentionally piss you off because he knows you're better than he is."

"At what? Entry-level pet store management?"

"No, being twenty-two in South Park, Colorado."

Kyle doesn't say anything, shrugging as he checks a text message on his phone. Eventually, Kyle wheels his chair back to his desk and continues his work on his homework.

Token watches Craig watch his movie for nearly half an hour before he drags his pencil and pad of paper back towards him. He draws circles, triangles and squares, trying to formulate his thoughts.

"How would you describe him?" Token asks, breaking the silence.

"Who?"

"Craig Tucker."

Kyle sits back in his chair, glancing at Token before his eyes slide to the screen. Craig's film is just coming to an end, and he closes Quicktime just as the credits begin to roll.

"Arrogant and presumptuous," Kyle says. "Insolent."


	2. Chapter 2

_22:12:56 Nov 20 2012_

Keys barely land on the desk before Craig is collapsing on his bed. It's comforting after an eight hour shift at PetSteps. He only had to spend a few hours in Kyle's presence before Craig was acting manager. He was jealous that Kyle was able to be home by 4, but he would hate to have to do intake in the morning. He considers himself lucky that Victor doesn't seem to think he's responsible enough for that. Craig basically agrees with him. Once Craig was able to take over for the evening, it was more or less smooth sailing. He was able to let Celeste ride on his shoulder as he noted out of stock items and filled out a bunch of confusing paperwork in the back office, and maybe he took a fifteen nap while he was hiding out back there, he can't be blamed for that. He had a long night.

Craig goes to parties at least once a week and they never fail to make him feel like shit the next day. Kenny says that's how you know it was a good time. After Craig miraculously managed to drive his sister to school in the morning, he could do nothing but sleep until five minutes before he had to leave for work. It has been about two days since he last showered, but he passes just fine. Now that he is home and relaxing, he may as well spend his time well.

Craig grabs the camera he set beside him when he flopped onto his comforter and sets it on the nightstand beside his bed. He leans off the bed and drags his laptop out from underneath. He strips down his pants as the computer loads and the internet catches a signal. Stretching out comfortably on the bed, Craig is finally able to pull up his favorite streaming website and head straight to the gay section.

There is some shame in this. It took Craig months to be able to even look at the word 'gay,' let alone click the button and let himself even glance at the thumbnails of naked men. Craig is almost always on Incognito mode when he uses his computer, too afraid of someone finding what he is up to, even though no one knows his password. 'Gay' isn't a word he can say. It's just a word, but it's threatening.

A carefully-selected video opens and Craig scrolls forward past the weak story to the middle of a blowjob. The men are both built and buff with olive skin, and Craig watches with his hands on the bed beside him for nearly the entire duration of the video. It cuts to the ending without a good chunk of the buildup, and Craig navigates back to the thumbnails. He scrolls for a while, flipping pages and dismissing each video based on one still. If he rolls over the image, he'll see a few more stills, but he can only bring himself to be patient like that a few times. Mostly, he rejects the videos.

It takes Craig until page five to find another video he could maybe stomach. He's wary as he lets two young twinks come to life on the screen. There is some making out, which Craig doesn't mind too much as long as there are wandering hands, where there are. He wants the bodies revealed as quickly as possible so there are no clothes or pretenses, just sex. Craig doesn't want to think about what he's doing or what he's watching, he just wants to get off.

It's almost too long before the side-long couch blowjob starts. It's a weird position, with one guy sitting upright and the other beside him and twisted into his lap, built seemingly entirely for porn, so Craig has some objection to it, but it lets it play. There is palatable enthusiasm. He unbuttons his work pants and rests his hands low on his stomach over his 'animal life' tattoo as he watches a relatively perky blowjob. He feels a dull radiation of heat, but it's mediocre at best. The timeline on the video doesn't look great and there is a possibility it will only end in the blowjob, but that wouldn't be the worst thing if it continues the way it is.

After ten minutes of the side-long couch position, they move into a standing and kneeling stance, and Craig lays a lukewarm palm over his boxers. The ending isn't bad, a few cuts to the receivers face shows that he seems to be enjoying himself and groaning aloud. Craig could work with that. Interest is nice, it's closer to the raw, thoughtless masturbation he strives for, but the video cuts off in the middle of a facial, simultaneously cutting off Craig's interest.

Craig kicks off his pants and shucks his shirt, feeling ready to get into what he's watching. He wants to want it. Craig feels better when he's naked, he loves the colors woven into his skin, even if there is no one around to show them off to but himself.

The back button and a few pages forward shows Craig a young tattooed man, and he opens the video, treated immediately to the camera panning down a thing, tall, heavily tattooed body. This kind of porn is a rare luxury, the only men he ever find half naked and inked are in pictures circulating tumblr. The guy isn't terribly good looking and his partner is kind of boring and plain with a bicep barbed wire tattoo, but it will do. There is a handjob, which typically Craig wouldn't enjoy, but he is more interested in this video than he typically is. He likes the way this guy looks.

It's easy, for once, to drag his palm down his inked stomach and over his crotch. He can lose himself in the video and there isn't much thought to it. Craig finds his eyes occasionally lingering shut when he blinks. It's a strange sensation, it's not often that Craig isn't bored and thinking purely of the pay off in the end, and repeating in his mind to finish, finish, finish. The blowjob scene is quick and to the point. Craig gets a good view of tattooed hips during the close ups, he rubs himself, surprising a small grunt from his throat. The blowjob turns into horizontal making out on a bed and some big hands over skin, and Craig is on board until the inked man rolls onto his stomach and lets himself be fingered. Craig's warm hands fly to the trackpad and hit back. His face is hot from being caught off guard.

When his heart slows its pounding, Craig sighs and clicks on the next video.

The clock on the camera reads 00:19:12 when he finally finishes. It's the day of Token's Thanksgiving party and he needs to visit his friend before the party so he can give him some of the most recent footage. Really, he knows he can send it to him, but he wants to see if he can manage an early viewing of the film for the party. It's always nice to have an advantage over his classmates.

Craig decides he can go to bed when his heart rate slows, so he may as well glance at tumblr while he calms down. His dash is mostly tattoo blogs, drug blogs, film reviews, film stills, and landscape photography. His own blog's summary reads: "Boy. 22. Colorado." and not much else. He refuses to give into the asks he receives about what he looks like and doesn't answer the ones accusing him of lying. The only original content he posts are some vague photographs of South Park and the occasional short, nonspecific text posts. He's reblogged his anonymous submissions of his own tattoos to other tumblrs without indicating that they're his, which he feels is funny for only himself. Before long, Craig has spent an hour on tumblr and has reblogged a few things, immediately receiving a few likes and reblogs from them. His ask box remains blissfully silent.

It's another half-hour before he's shutting his laptop and sliding it under his bed. He makes sure the second battery for the camera is charging in a nearby outlet, then he turns off the bedside lamp, sinking the room into darkness. Craig flicks on the nightvision on the camera, and burrows under the blankets. He resists the urge to browse Reddit on his phone and instead shuts his eyes, letting himself drift off.

Craig never remembers his dreams. Very rarely there are colors or shapes and sometimes the illusion of Token or Clyde, people who are a part of his life. When his alarm goes off to drop Savannah off at school, Craig feels like shit, his head swimming with aquamarine. He rolls out of bed and slips into a hoodie and sneakers, dragging his feet and the video camera downstairs to prod his sister.

The drive is short and mostly painless. Savannah doesn't say anything except that she doesn't need to be picked up because it's a half day at school and she's going out with her friends for pizza after school. It's strange that she even told him what she was planning on doing, usually it's a time or a plain statement about not needing a ride. He supposes she may be maturing.

Once she's out of the car, Craig drives to the edge of town where the run down houses with three bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms and half-finished projects in the driveways fade away and are replaced by tiny mansions nestled into hills with three car garages. At the end of the only wealthy block in South Park is the apricot-orange wonder of the Blacks' home. He pulls into the winding driveway and parks behind the golden 2008 Lexus LX that belongs to Linda Black.

On his keyring is a brass key with jagged edges and a four number code sharpied onto the head. His free hand unlocks the door and he bumps it shut with his hip. His other hand pans around the grand foyer in the Black home.

"Token?" Comes the soft voice of Mrs. Black, and she pokes her head out of the upstairs office to see Craig. He raises a hand and she waves back. "Oh, hi honey. Token's not home yet. He probably won't be here until around twelve."

Craig hums, diverting the camera from Linda to the view of the kitchen down a long hallway.

"We'll be leaving soon for Aspen. Shame you boys didn't want to join us this year, but Token is so dedicated to the get-together tradition. It's been ages since we've seen you, Craig. It's usually just Clyde that comes with us, if I can even get Token to come."

"Maybe next time, Mrs. Black," Craig says dutifully and she gives him a small, reserved smile before disappearing back into the office. He can't imagine skiing anymore.

Craig wanders the scenic route through a connecting maze of living room and library before ending in the kitchen. He digs through the pantry for a box of Special K and a jug of milk in the refrigerator and pours himself a bowl of cereal. Craig sits at the island counter and spoons breakfast into his mouth as he makes sure the camera captures the Black household. He says aloud, "And this is the bourgeois of South Park."

Footsteps approach and Craig keeps slurping down his cereal even as Mr. Black comes into the kitchen. "Linda, where is my-"

Craig looks up to meet his best friend's father's brown eyes, ever-friendly despite finding an unexpected visitor in his kitchen.

"How are you, Craig?"

"Fine," He says around a mouthful of cereal.

Steve looks at the counter where the milk and box of cereal are still sitting out and open, and he moves over to them, properly sealing them up and putting them away. "Token isn't home yet."

"I've heard."

"It probably won't be a few more hours, but you're free to hang out."

"Alright," Craig says, slurping down the milk in his cereal.

Steve moves around the room, straightening a few things and taking inventory of the Louis Vuitton suitcases and Longchamp leather duffle bag waiting near the kitchen table. Craig follows him with the video camera, but doesn't watch much himself, scraping the last remnants of flavor off the inside of the bowl. Steve leaves the room with his dufflebag and returns a few minutes later when Craig is half-heartedly rinsing the bowl out. "You boys should join us next year," Steve says, and Craig just nods.

Steve and Linda leave before Token arrives. They wave goodbye and tell him to take care of the house and don't do anything too crazy. Craig knows his limits, he's not going to end up trying to slide down the Black's long banister like Fosse McDonald did the previous year or vomiting in the houseplants like Heidi Turner does nearly every year. Craig has his drug preferences, but he has his people preferences, too, and he isn't too keen on losing control in front of a bunch of asshole he hates. He doesn't know if it's better or worse that Token's parties are exclusively for his South Park High graduating class.

Craig settles in front of the television and texts Token, "I'm at your house," before texting Clyde, "Are you coming tonight?"

He flips stations for a while, disinterested in everything he sees, before texting Clyde again, "I'm tempted to ditch, but Token has a pretty good movie this year."

Within a few minutes, Clyde responds, "Have you seen it yet? Am I gonna be embarrassed?"

"Not yet," is Craig's reply.

"Dude, I'm still in New York. Dad couldn't afford to pay for Thanksgiving and Christmas. You gotta tell me all about it."

"I'll let you know." He pockets his phone and stands up, abandoning a knife infomercial in favor of touring Token's house for the film. It makes him realize he should tour his own house in the same way so he can show a comparison of the Black's home versus the average South Park residence. It will also be a good contrast to what the house will look like when it's crawling with twenty-one and twenty-two year olds in just a few hours. He likes this house, and he savors the difference between the beautiful Black family home and the ravaged aristocratic mansion defiled in the name of youth.

As Craig is panning the camera around the third bedroom with the vague beach theme, his phone vibrates with a text from Token, "Be there in an hour."

Craig doesn't respond, instead wandering into a pristinely decorated attached bathroom and catching himself in the mirror. It was polite of Craig to put on a relatively clean hoodie that he found on his desk chair rather than the floor where most of his clothes seem to come from. He shakes his hair in hopes that it may look less flat and greasy, but to no avail. He ignores it and moves on.

Token's bedroom is his second favorite place in the house, defeated only by Token's basement studio. In middle school, Token begged to move his bed down to the basement, but his parents refused because they didn't have anyone else to fill the house other than themselves and that would leave them with three guest bedrooms and not enough space for Token's film equipment or to host soirees. It's best this way, because Token has taken over the basement for film and holiday parties, just like his parents predicted, and his room is a huge closet of clothes. Aside from the attached walk-in, there are rolling clothing racks like the ones used on film sets full of Token's clothes. Craig has only been to Token's freshman and sophomore Boulder dorms a few times, and he could hardly believe the amount of clothes the guy packed into his tiny dorm closet. He'd love to know what it looks like this year.

Craig runs his hand over a rack as he passes it, feeling wool and fur and cashmere, rounded out with cotton and polyester. He turns the camera on a few movie posters: Pulp Fiction, Run Lola Run, and Amelie, panning over to the Firefly and Roots television posters. There is a bookshelf full of film books from previous semesters and for pleasure-reading: instructional, commemorative, theoretical, or historical.

Finding himself out of rooms to explore, Craig collapses once more on the couch and doesn't bother to change the channel when a bad sitcom plays. He debates rewinding through the footage, but decides against it.

About ten minutes before Token is due to arrive, Craig leaves, smoking with the window down as he drives back to his house and blowing heat at the lens propped on the dashboard.

_21:04:22 Nov 21 2012_

Craig managed a shower before the party, which was courteous of him. He fixed his hair, zipped a plain blue hoodie over his plaid flannel button down, and laced his Docs snug around his tight pants. He looks taller, he thinks to himself as he catches sight of his form in the hallway mirror, but other than it, it's an appropriate look, not too scummy and not too fancy, so it'll have to do. It's not quite Token's bowties and drop-crotch pants, but it's something. He's running a little late which means he won't be able to sneak a peek at the film before it airs, but he still takes his time getting into his car, the Canon ever present in his right hand.

The drive is short, but Craig spends a while looking for parking. It was stupid to think he could approach the house, there are cars everywhere. He has to slowly circle the cul-de-sac and swerve around a beer bottle already left in the street and backtrack. He parks a few houses down and walks.

The lens takes in the cars along the sidewalk as he walks, occasionally pausing to peer into the cars for a glimpse of personality, as he often does. The street lights on the South side of the block end, so he heads North to the better lighting and allows his camera to readjust. He doesn't recognize any of the cars anymore, except for Stan's black jeep. Everyone has been gone for too long to remember the vehicles that ran the town when he was a high school senior.

There is no one outside of the house, and the door is shut but unlocked. Craig sighs, adjusts his camera into a steady grip, and opens the door.

Jenny Simon and Jason are the first two people he sees. They're chatting by the grand staircase and her delicate hand is wrapped around the base of a Blue Moon. Luckily, neither notice him. Craig feels lucky in avoiding Jason, their last run-in was an awkward mess and Craig hates trying to appease the people around him. Even though he and Jason used to play Mario Kart nearly every day after school in eighth grade, acquaintances die easy. At the end of the hallway into the kitchen, bodies move from one place to another. Craig is drawn to the motion, following life with his video camera until he emerges in the kitchen that he was in not ten hours prior.

The island counter is covered in alcohol, boxes of beer and bottles or heavy liquor are alleviated by juice and soda for mixed drinks or just to cool down. Former classmates of his are gathered around, reaching across, debating ingredients to pour into the crisp red Solo cups that Token buys for the sentiment. They're a bunch of mountain hicks, they may as well drink like them.

Milly is opening a box of Oreos at the kitchen table, which is covered in munchies, signaling to Craig that there is marijuana floating somewhere in the house. It has been a slow journey to find the weed from the moment he stepped through the door, but he has to take it slow first, see everyone while simultaneously avoid being seen. He imagines he'll find Milly again when he finds the weed.

"Craig!"

He barely avoids wincing when Annie Faulk catches sight of him. She approaches, pointing to the camera. "Is this the project Token was telling me about? Sweet camera."

Craig looks down at the video camera in his hand and then back up at Annie's square, smiling face. "It's for some class of his."

She nods. Craig used to know her. They used to hang out back when he was friends with Jimmy and Jason. He thinks she and Jimmy maybe even dated for a misguided month or so. She was a tuba player in marching band with them, and Craig didn't mind when he and Clyde would meet up with Jimmy and Jason after band and she'd come with them. She was chatty, but not invasive. "Yeah, he told me. I love it, showing a bunch of snooty university kids our small-town life. I think it's gonna knock them out. Have you seen tonight's video?"

Craig shakes his head and she pats his free arm. "Good, we can all be embarrassed."

The one thing that Craig expressly doesn't like about Annie is the quiet sympathy in her eyes, like she always has a vague understanding of what the people around her are thinking, even if they don't vocalize it. Annie walks away without prodding for information or trying get him to ask about her life, and Craig can exhale. She meets up with Jessie, who looks into the camera, and Craig feels ready to move on.

Next is the living room where a few people are chatting and drinking throughout. Bradley Biggle is on the couch surfing the channels on the television and the Cotswolds are beside him, the only kids not from their graduating class allowed at the party because they have thrown a few good ones themselves and they're all the same age anyway. The camera sees that Rebecca and Mark are already a little drunk, and Douglas, standing near the dining room chatting with some kids Craig can't recognize from behind, seems bordering on smashed.

It's time to move on before someone notices him and tries to draw him into conversation.

Craig circles around the downstairs again, avoiding Jason and his new group of Dogpoo and Francis, and ends up in the den where he is immediately greeted to the sight of his arch nemesis and his best friend talking. There are a few other people around, mostly women that Craig has long-isolated himself from. Craig avoids them and heads immediately toward the two that caught his eye, the camera focused intently on their laughing faces as Kyle tells Token something.

Beside a pristinely fashion savvy Token, Kyle looks ridiculous in jeans and a basketball jersey under a zip-up. The sight of him makes Craig's skin crawl.

"Shouldn't you be studying?" Craig asks, his voice spiked with a hint of malice. Both men look at him.

"Actually, yes," Kyle says before Token can comment. He turns to Token. "Later, man. Text me about those Nuggets tickets."

Craig's brow twitches as they bump fists before Kyle walks off, his large crown of curly carrot hair disappearing around the corner. His eyes dart back to Token who is watching Craig with amusement. He looks sharp in his denim button-down and burgundy bowtie, but Craig just sees his friend laughing at his behavior.

"What?" Craig asks. Token doesn't say anything so Craig looks around the room. "Are you actually friends?"

"With Kyle?"

"Who else?"

"Yeah, Kyle and I are really good friends."

"Since when?" Craig tightens his grip on the camera. "Stop smiling like that."

"Dude, he and I have always been friends."

"I didn't know you guys like, actually hung out."

Token rolls his eyes, but it seems good-natured. Craig knew that he and Kyle always played basketball for fun on weekends in high school, he's sat smoking in the parking lot enough times while they ran around with Stan, Clyde, Gary Harrison, and occasionally Kenny to know that they kept in some type of contact into their late teens, but he didn't realize it would keep going after high school. He didn't realize they would hang out and act like friends. "He's typically here when you're not."

"Are you serious?"

Token laughs and hands Craig the large beer can he was holding. "Drink this and loosen up a bit. What's up with you, man? You ditched this morning. If my parents hadn't told me you were here, I wouldn't have believed it."

Craig swallows a large mouthful of Wexford and rolls his neck.

"We have a decent film tonight, man. I'm gonna show it at eleven so you have like an hour to wander around before people start getting mad at us," Token chuckles and puts a hand on Craig's back, steering him out of the room and back into the kitchen. "It looks like there are some people outside and I'd bet pretty much everyone else is in the basement. Go violate their privacy."

That gets a wry twist of the lips from Craig, and he returns the beer to Token and dodges around Timmy to get to the large glass doors leading from the kitchen to the porch. In the backyard, Heidi and Christophe are smoking over the railing, Terrance Mephisto, Lola, Mandy, and Gregory chatting around the patio table, nestled deep into cushioned chairs. They're bundled up tight against the late November chill in thick clothes and hands around heavy mixed drinks. Craig films the content quiet for a while. The kids at the table speak quietly, Christophe and Heidi say nothing. The night air seems so vast around them.

"Are you filming us?" Gregory asks in a clipped British accent, raising an eyebrow. Everyone else turns their attention on him, six pairs of eyes in the darkness, illuminated by the light flooding out from the kitchen.

Craig rolls his eyes and goes back inside. He weaves through Esther and Douglas tossing back shots.

Craig knows the people he's looking for aren't in the basement, not with the upcoming movie screening. Instead, Craig's long legs carry him up the stairs and into the beach-themed guest bedroom with the attached bath that he was filming earlier in the day. He shuts the door behind him and lowers the camera down to his waist. The air in the room is thick and chilly, the window wide open to let out the smoke from the bong Kenny has his lips around.

Beside Kenny on the bed sits Stan, and on the floor are Fosse McDonald, Red, and Milly. There is a bottle of Jack Daniels and Popov in the middle of their circle. Wesley is smoking a pipe out the window. Kenny holds a hand up. "Camera off, fucker."

Craig pretends to power it down, but again finds a good spot for it to discreetly film from. He sits in the circle facing the door and Kenny and Stan climb down to join the group. Kenny passes the bong to Craig and he pulls a lighter from his own pocket and lights the piece, placing his mouth over the opening and inhaling deep into his chest and down to his diaphragm. Hold it.

Craig tips his head back to exhale, a transparent white cloud alerting him of a job well done. Immediately, he takes another hit, holding it longer and letting out clear smoke. He coughs a bit on the release and hands the bong back to Kenny, but is ushered to pass it to Heidi on his right. Craig smokes with them all in silent peace. The occasional spoken word is short and kept to a minimum. The most sound that comes is a few coughs and a neighborly pat on the back to help clear a throat.

The camera isn't watching the door when it opens, but Craig's gaze rises to greet the person backlit by the hallway chandelier. Closing the door behind himself is a young man with a pale, square face. His eyes are wide and hyper-alert, but framed with bruises of exhaustion. The man's form is shaped by a thick wool cardigan and his stubby pink toes peek out from worn Birkenstocks.

"Tweek! Holy shit, man! You're back!"

"I barely even recognized you, oh my god, Tweek!"

Tweek Tweak stands on the outside of the circle, his hands deep in his sweater pockets. His head is ticking subtly to the left-his clean, shaven head. Craig silently agrees with Red, he barely recognized him without his iconic mess of blonde hair.

"Take a seat, bro," Kenny welcomes, and Tweek glances nervously around the circle before Milly scoots over to make space for him to sit between her and Craig. He doesn't bother to fold in on himself or shift over when the newcomer sits cross-legged beside him. Craig is looking at the photograph of a mountain off a beach that he knows Token took on a family vacation to Big Sur.

Red holds up Kenny's signature bong and wiggles it in Tweek's direction. "Want some?"

Kenny shoots Red a look.

"I, uh, no, thank you."

"You're free to just chill," Kenny says easily. He's the picture of chill in his white t-shirt and acid wash jeans, his signature orange parka draped over the bed behind him.

Milly reaches out. "Pass it this way." The glass instrument moves around the circle, but not without stopping at Fosse first, who blows the thick white smoke in Milly's face. She laughs and coughs as she swats the air away. "Oh my god, who taught you to smoke?"

She snatches the bong from him and with her pink lighter, sets the weed ablaze and inhales deep. She holds it, turns to Fosse, and blows a narrow stream of nearly clear air at his nose. She grins, the last of the smoke filtering through her teeth, "You suck, McDonald. I knew Western boys weren't worth shit."

"Says the girl who went there for her first year," Red laughs.

Craig is barely listening, too busy taking in the lighting, the visuals, the warmth in his stomach, the slight dizziness in his head. The young man beside him twitches occasionally, his fists tight on top of his dark denim knees, knuckles white and purple. His eyes are everywhere, scanning the room for something unknown. His clothes look soft, carefully chosen for comfort. Craig turns his head to Tweek, "Hey."

Huge hazel eyes dart to him. "Gah! Hi!"

Craig looks back at the circle. It feels intimate, without the comfort of trust. It feels like he's being watched even as no eyes are on him. It feels too open. He's sharing a guarded secret with a group of fuck ups. It's a messy group of kids, Craig sometimes like they way they look. He isn't used to Fosse being here, but the occasional person comes and goes. Fosse's basketball shorts reveal thick, hairy calves. Craig rolls his eyes around the circle to see that the small amount of hair poking out from under Stan's beanie is dark and inky. Kenny's arms braced back on the floor look strong. He turns back to Tweek. "So, your hair."

Tweek looks panicked. "What about it?"

"It's cool."

Tweek furrows his brows, his mouth pressed tight in a way that could easily turn into a smile or a frown. Craig wonders how it would look on camera, the awkward twenty-something Mona Lisa, the boy with the shaved head. It's mysterious. Tweek Tweak could be an interesting kid to follow, but Craig speculates that he hasn't seen him in a few months. The back room crowd at parties fluctuates, but Craig's attention to detail can be shit if it isn't for a film. That could change.

"Where have you been?" Craigs asks.

Tweek looks down at his hands, like he wants them to show Craig the answer, but all Craig sees are bumps of knuckles and bones, and bulges of veins under paper skin.

"Dude," Kenny shouts, or it feels like shouting in Craig's bomb shelter. "I keep looking at you. Your hair is awesome."

Tweek smiles, and that's when Craig realizes he doesn't have the camera facing him. He has to be discreet, so he picks it up and turns it over in his hands like he's looking for something, which he kind of is. He needs to constantly check that it is in top condition. Once he is certain nothing is wrong with it, he tilts it against his leg so it's aiming at Tweek. The blonde seems to make eye contact with the camera and twitches, but says nothing.

Craig is tuned out of the conversation around him, instead waving at Red for the return of the bong. When it makes its way back to him, he holds in the smoke as long as he can before releasing. It feels better. His head is light, his eyes hot, and he scratches a hand through his hair after he passes the bong in Fosse's direction.

He spares a glance at Tweek, whose eyes are roaming the room. This man beside him is different from the boy he thought he kind of knew. Craig does not know anyone, not to any real extent, but he remembers that Tweek used to jump and scream at any small sound when they were children, and he knows that the same jumpiness followed him into high school and his adult years. If Craig could openly stare, he could take in the small array of twitches and wide-eyed glances. If he could ask Tweek to ramble while he listened, he could pick up on the tremors and the cracks in his voice. Instead, he strains to catch casual glimpses of the jittery boy underneath the calm, reserved man.

The door opens and Token is towering in the frame, a picture of pride despite the weak cover of casualness. "Movie in the basement in five."

The door shuts behind him and Milly stands up. "Well, I'm not missing this. I can't wait to see how I've embarrassed myself this year."

Red barks a cynical laugh, but she is getting up as well. "You? Are you forgetting the video last year that captured me pissing myself during a game of manhunt?"

"At yet we still come to these things and get smashed off our fucking faces even with the cameras rolling," Milly tilts her head to the group.

Kenny and Fosse stand up. The atmosphere is changing too quickly, the room is nothing like it was two minutes ago. Craig looks at Tweek. "Are you gonna watch it?"

The blonde jerks. His voice still seems to grind out from between his teeth, a little high-pitched and strange. Even without yelling, his speech pattern remains nervous and quick, "What? Uh, yes. I guess so."

Craig says nothing, instead quietly climbing to his feet and waiting for Tweek to follow as he adjusts the camera in his hands. Craig leads the way out of the room, where Kenny and Stan are still lingering. He follows the pattern of the house he knows well, making a right and then down the stairs to two lefts to the basement door. They are among the last people down, and the home theater seats are already full. There are kids sitting and laying on the ground, trying to look casual and pretend their adolescent antics aren't about to be exploited. Mostly everyone has alcohol in hand, ready to drown out their humiliation.

Craig notes that the door to Token's studio is locked from the outside, and the man himself is standing near it, holding a laptop on one arm and navigating with the other. There are no cords or equipment connecting the device to the large screen on the wall, but Token swipes a finger across his phone propped on laptop and the lights in the basement dim. He presses a button on his laptop and sits on the ground, turning down the brightness on his computer as the screen on the wall bursts to life.

_Black &Tucker Productions_

Craig shifts along the back row of seats in the room, glancing beside him to see the blonde was still following. He edges around Timmy's wheelchair and leans against and open space on the wall. Tweek squeezes in next to him. Their arms line up and Craig misses the title of the movie.

_Filmed by Token Black and Craig Tucker_

For a moment, he feels exposed. Craig leans his head back against the fine wood paneling on the wall behind him and lets himself be the center of attention before everyone's self loathing and sadistic voyeurism kicks in. His head is a little light from the weed. He feels good. Tweek's hands are deep in his sweater pockets.

_Edited by Token Black_

The screen bursts into color and Craig can feel the tension filling the room. Everyone wants to rise above, everyone wants to hold their own. The screen shows a pan over a party in Clyde's backyard, as shown from a second-story window. Craig took that footage in the beginning of the summer. He and Token were flying high and filming Clyde trying to impress a girl he brought home from college with his above-ground pool. He was shirtless and attempting to dive into it without breaking his neck. All around are their old classmates drinking and chatting. It was still light out and the weather was only in the mid-sixties. Everyone was in strange mixtures of bathing suits and warm clothing. Clyde goes for another dive, slips and falls onto the side of the pool, tumbling down to the dying grass beneath it. The film goes shaky as the Craig Tucker of the past laughs at Clyde's demise. Token's voice can be heard, raspy and deep.

"Oh, shit."

The scene cuts while the audience is still chuckling, and the lighting adjusts in the film until the view of Clyde crouching behind a wall comes into view. Craig is noticing the severe difference in quality between the footage he's been taking, and what his old camera used to take. Next year's film will be better, he knows.

"Where is she?" Clyde asks over his shoulder to Craig.

"I can't see her without blowing your cover, dude."

Craig cringes. He always hates hearing his voice from behind the lens, but he settles back into his high and shakes it off. He remembers thisnight. Clyde was trying to jump out from behind a wall to scare Marjorine. Craig can't help but glance to the boy beside him, who seems to be remembering this night as well, and is shrinking back against the wall, fidgeting and restless.

"I hear footsteps," Clyde notes. The camera captures him leaning closer to the edge of the wall, the shadow of his target creeping closer down the hallway. Just as the body is about the round the corner, Clyde attacks. He stands and jumps out, a childish "boo!" just barely leaving his lips before he dissolves into sobbing.

The camera pulls into focus on Tweek, nearly a year ago, his hair still long and tangled, falling over his sunken eyes. The other man looks horrified, hurried apologies mixed in with frantic swearing as Clyde clutches his broken nose and Tweek tries to wipe his victim's blood off of his knuckles and on to his jeans. Clyde has collapsed to the floor, crying through weak laughter and admittance that he deserved it. Marjorine eventually rounds the corner, kneeling down to tend to the wounded, and Craig's camera watches Tweek bolt down the hall.

Tweek isn't running now, but he looks like he wants to. A shaky hand skates over his skull and Craig would bet his buzz cut feels nice under wandering palms. Tweek sighs audibly and makes brief eye contact with Craig, who in sharp response, looks away and back at the screen.

Kenny's freckled face appears close up on the screen. He looks smug. "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and women, may I present to you for the sixth-"

"Seventh!" Comes a voice from off-camera and he pauses, looking irritated for a bare moment.

"Seventh," He corrects himself, "time: Mr. and Mrs. Marsh!"

"They are not married," Nichole corrects, walking past the camera, on her way to occupy herself with something other than the filming.

"Yet," Kenny mumbles in concern.

He steps aside and the room is shown Stan and Wendy standing in a corner by themselves talking quietly and occasionally kissing, their hands on each other's arms. They don't notice the camera. Things are peaceful for a moment before the video cuts to them later that evening, Stan red in the face and falling over as Wendy tries to drag him upright. Another shot shows Wendy sitting on the floor of a bathroom as Stan pukes into the toilet. She's long kicked off her platform shoes and is texting. Stan lays his head on the porcelain seat, facing away from the camera.

Craig looks around the room. Kenny and Stan never made it downstairs. He cannot detect Wendy in the theatre either. If he recalls correctly, she goes to school far away somewhere. He wouldn't be surprised if she just stopped coming back to South Park one day. He knows he would.

The video shows Esther Stoley holding a baby that's barely a month old wrapped in a pink onesie. She's holding a tiny hand and waving it for the camera. There are a few friends around her house, and they're all smiling. Pastel wrapped gifts sit on the coffee table in front of them.

Craig rolls his eyes and glances back at Tweek, who has relaxed somewhat. He still looks on edge. Craig isn't terribly surprised, Tweek has always been nervous and all of their old classmates always say they hate these videos.

The next clip pans around Milly's kitchen during a summer party. Craig cringes when he sees himself tossing back a shot with Clyde. He prefers his position to be behind the camera and never in front of it, but thankfully the view slides over to where Eric Cartman is mixing a drink, an irritated Kyle standing next to him, arms folded over his chest, back angled toward Eric. The shorter man stirs the blue liquid and offers it to Kyle, who shakes his head, but he's more easily swayed than Craig has ever seen him when Kyle takes the drink, shoots Eric a look, and swallows a huge mouthful. Eric laughs as Kyle shivers and pushes the cup into Eric's big hands. Next to them, Jimmy and Clyde are snickering as they mix something strange and pass it to Douglas.

Token was there the day that Bebe came home from the military, but Craig has never seen this footage. She appears on screen with a large boot and crutches, dressed head to toe in her combat uniform, and smiling like she hadn't nearly been killed. Red runs up to her and they embrace hard, one crutch dropping to the ground as Red squeezes her. The next scene is Bebe at a party still in her uniform, and she's laughing with Red, Heidi, and Annie.

On the screen, Kyle is shown again at the summer party, holding the same drink he rejected earlier and laughing with Eric, his face nearly the color of his hair.

Beside Craig, Tweek lets out a small, dry chuckle. Craig twists his colorful neck to look down at him and Tweek's amber eyes meet his. Craig mouths, "What?"

Tweek's eyes dart around. He leans a little closer to Craig, and the taller boy is given a close-up give of a shaved head and wild, nearly invisible eyebrows. "Kyle drinking." Craig raises his brow a fraction and Tweek lowers his voice so only they can hear themselves. "It's just funny. He's so tightly wound and a loud drunk."

"I didn't know he drank."

Tweek laughs. "He drinks. Like, if someone can drag him to a party, he'll drink."

Craig's eyes shift to the screen where the camera is panning around Milly's living room. He catches a glimpse of Kyle sitting on the couch with Rebecca Cotswold, Token, and the wild-hair Tweek of the past. Kyle is telling a story, still laughing and leaning over Token to try to get his point across to an uncomfortably smiling Tweek. The camera moves over to where Dogpoo is showing Scott something on his phone, and Craig looks back to Tweek.

"See?" The real life Tweek says, almost into Craig's neck.

"I didn't know Kyle and Token were friends," Craig admits. "I don't really get Kyle."

"Token is friends with everyone," Tweek nods, his voice low enough that only Craig can detect it. "He networks. He's in almost every scene. Didn't you notice, man?"

Craig frowns, blinking away a little haziness in his eyes so he can refocus on the film. Token is on screen, laughing as he drags Nichole downstairs and away from his bedroom. She's teasing Token about the size of his closet, and he refuses to have it, picking her up and jogging down the stairs through her loud and playful protests. Craig swung the camera from the staircase and down towards the rest of his classmates, where people were just beginning to take off their coats and gloves. There is hugging and reuniting, laughing and occasionally, someone seems to wipe away a tear. This must have been the beginning of spring break. Something that always surprises Craig is how his acquaintances in college all seem to think it's "been so long" since they've seen each other last. He feels like he sees them all far too much.

"If he's not there, it's because you're not. Someone has to hold the camera."

The scene shifts and the lighting is dramatically different. They're still indoors but this time it's daytime. This is Wendy's house, but Craig only knows this because of the banner that hangs behind the couch in the living room reading "Welcome Home, Elder Harrison!" The camera catches the host and the guest of honor in an embrace, Stan lingering off to the side. She's touching his shoulder, swearing his skin got darker, his hair got lighter, calling him Elder. "You can call me Gary!" He insists, but he's laughing.

Wendy shoves him lightly, "You've been away for two years, I haven't been able to see you as the fine, young Mormon man you've become!" The video shows Gary greeting all of his friends individually, engaging in hugs and sweet words.

"Hey guys," Gary says on screen, his smile big and blinding as he addresses all of his friends. "I appreciate the virgin cocktails and caffeine-free soda, but you all can drink!"

"Thank fuck," Stan mutters and pulls his silver flask from his pocket, unscrewing the cap and immediately swallowing a mouthful.

"And here's another clip of the Stan show," Tweek says with amusement.

"Token's kind of fascinated with him. He likes watching people die."

Craig watches the camera walk down a hallway of someone's house, passing a pretty nauseous looking Red and Heidi holding each other up, Jason knocking on the door of the restroom, and Jimmy telling Jessie a joke that she's laughing too loudly at.

The video shifts to someone's living room in a quiet setting. Kevin, Esther, Francis, Scott, Leroy, and Nelly sitting around a Dungeons and Dragons table. It's shot from a seat, beautiful high-definition close ups of five friends chatting and playing a game.

As the camera moves through the hall toward some kids with their backs turned, Tweek leans into Craig and says, "Group babysitting job?"

It takes Craig a moment to connect that he's referring to a crib that can be seen behind them. The statement seems almost wicked, and Craig checks Tweek's expression to be sure what he's hearing. The blonde seems mostly harmless, pointing out what should be the obvious, stuff that Craig's not seeing, mostly because he doesn't care to look. Craig finds it fascinating, listening as Tweek points out that Bebe always has to wear sneakers since that shrapnel burst through her leg, and how Christophe is so awkward that he spends entire parties smoking outside if Gregory isn't dragging him around with him. Once the words leave Tweek's cracked lips, Craig can picture the scenarios in his head, like he's seen it all before but stored it for later use. Tweek has insight and observations that Craig is missing. He could use that attention to detail for his shots for Token's film project.

The film alight against the wall shows the boy beside him, his yellow mane framing his slack face as Clyde and Bill hoist him up and carry him outside into the night. Craig can hear himself behind the camera following them out of the door and watching as they heave an unresponsive Tweek into the back of Clyde's parents' car. The camera cuts to Tammy and Patty Nelson smoking outside and walking back in doors.

Craig looks down at Tweek beside him, who is stiff and twitching almost imperceptibly. They make a second of eye contact and Tweek walks off, weaving through some spectators and bolting up the stairs out of the basement. Craig debates following him. He could use his commentary.

He watches the parade of shitty twenty-somethings embarrassing themselves until the lights flick back on. He is proud of the film. It isn't fantastic, but he took a lot of that footage, and he suffered for his art having to watch and listen to those idiots. He meets Token's eye across the room, he looks mostly proud. Everyone else in the room is rising from where they sunk into their seats and the walls. Craig, for once, is trying to make eye contact. Everyone is humiliated and raw, and he likes them best this way.

A few kids are glaring at him, which he doesn't take to heart. There wasn't anything terrible in that video. He and Token have done much worse. He feels as though Stan took the worst hit, and the man isn't even around to feel the air leave his lungs. Token slinks over to Craig and stands beside him.

"Good work, soldier."

"Better work, Mr. Editor."

Esther shoots Craig a dark look, which he writes off with the others. He leans over Token's laptop to see the screen, where Token is closing the video.

"I hope you're getting good footage for next year's," Token muses. "People's expectations rise as they age, it seems. And now I'm camera-less. It's up to you, my good man."

Craig nods, running his hand affectionately across the matte plastic of the Canon. It may be the weed he smoked, or it could be the quiet rage that's still palatable in the room, but Craig is feeling inspired to create.

"I have some ideas."

_18:32:41 Nov 27 2012_

Fillmore has this look on his face. His eyes are a little wide, his mouth set. Craig has been trying to ignore it for the past hour, but he finds himself sneaking a glance every few minutes. The expression never changes. It's bizarre. Fillmore is not the friendliest looking guy, he's kind of wide and has ridiculous guido hair to match his thin eyebrows, but he does not always look like he is constipated. Craig is staring at Fillmore who is staring at the door. He pulls his phone out of his pocket to check the time. It's a half-hour until close.

"Is there a party?"

Fillmore does not respond right away. He does not seem to hear him for a moment before he snaps his head to Craig.

"What?"

"A party. Tonight."

"Yes?"

Craig resists the juvenile urge to roll his eyes. "Is there a party tonight?"

"Yeah," Fillmore says, eying Craig warily. "Some guy on the hockey team. Aren't you a little old to be going to these things?"

Craig spins the camera from where it was sitting on the register aimed at himself facing cat food to watch Fillmore, whose wide eyes are shaped by skepticism. "Are Stan and Kenny gonna be there?"

"I dunno, probably. Anywhere they can make money, right? Fucking leeches."

"Did you finish all your closing duties?" Craig asks without preface.

Fillmore looks a little peeved that the conversation was dropped, but he nods. "Just have to grab the trash from the back when we're all clear."

"Are we clear now?"

"Yes."

Craig grabs his camera and starts walking to the back. He shouts over his shoulder, "Walk the floor and finish facing, I'm getting all my paperwork done. I want to be out of here five minutes after close."

He hears Fillmore cheer to himself as he disappears into the back.

They are out of PetSteps at seven after eight. Fillmore does not thank Craig, but all Craig is looking for is an excuse to get out of work and go out for a drink and some weed. He has not gotten high since Thanksgiving, when Token whisked him away from the Tucker family disaster to pass a bong back and forth and make a really terrible music video in his bedroom, so Craig is looking forward to mooching off of the usual suspects. Fillmore is right, Stan and Kenny are leeches, they'll be wherever groups of teenagers are. Craig doesn't doubt that a few of the others will be there as well. They tend to run in a strange pack.

Craig parks behind Fillmore, but avoids walking in with him, opting to blow through a cigarette outside his car to relax his hands. He knows neither of them want to be seen with the other, and in all fairness, neither of them want to see the other outside of work. Craig wanders into the party on his own. It's a house he has never been in before, on one of the familiar residential streets of South Park. His camera is slowly scoping the faces and bodies in the foyer. He does not know anyone personally, though there are a few vaguely familiar faces. Craig never talksto these kids, he only observes for as long as he can stand it, which is maybe five minutes at the most.

After he picks up a Blue Moon from the kitchen, he moves slowly down a winding hallway in the one story house. He checks a few doors, certain to capture the image inside, which proves useful when he catches sight of a couple making out mostly naked on a bed. Craig walks into the last door on the left and shuts it behind him. It's a small, poorly lit office, and Kenny is sitting in a spinning chair like it's a goddamn throne while Stan, Red, Tweek, and two kids he doesn't know are strewn about the floor.

The worst part is the big, sloppy English bulldog napping on the floor under Kenny's chair. The white beast is snoring loudly, every inhale and exhale a honking, blubbery mess. It's poorly bred, morbidly obese, and Kenny and Stan's baby.

"Fuck off, Craig Tucker."

He puts the camera in Kenny's face in response. The grungy blonde sneers at the lens and bats it away. Craig walks over to Tweek and a random kid, and sits between them with some distance on either side. It's somewhat strange, and Craig is in between regretting his actions and wondering how to smoothly remove himself from the situation when Tweek looks at him with huge amber eyes.

"Hey."

Craig nods. "Hey."

He unscrews the bottle cap and tosses it aside to down a mouthful of beer. His eyes roam around the room, taking in what his camera sees. The room is full of losers, as it always is. It never changes. Craig has seen Tweek in these rooms before, they have chatted a few times before, but he never really noticed him. Tweek mostly kept to himself, twitching and screaming occasionally, which Craig always found weird and unapproachable. The man beside him jerks his neck and Craig feels invited to stare. He wears bulky clothes, but he looks comfortable and warm. His dark sweater is a stark contrast to his pale neck and pink ears.

"You ran out on me at the last party."

"Gah!"

"I thought I'd have to try to pull a Cinderella, but you didn't leave a glass pipe or anything."

"Oh," Tweek half laughs. "A weed joke, very clever."

"I'm full of them. It's my unique dry sense of humor."

"Dry as Luxor."

"What?"

"Egypt." Tweek smiles then twitches. "It's a-Egypt."

Craig nods and swallows another mouthful of Blue Moon. He feels a little out of his element. That's what he gets for trying to hold a conversation. Craig resigns to the fact that he just can't connect with people anymore. All he has are Token and Clyde, and he could be okay with that. Craig sets down his beer and picks up his camera, slowly guiding it around the room to the faces he otherwise would not care about, but it's all for the film.

"S-so what's that for? Another embarrassing movie?"

"Token's thesis. He wants a movie on how South Park is dying."

"Ugh, stop, man, that's an awful thought!" Tweek is quiet for a moment following his outburst. "Do you really think South Park is dying?"

"I don't know. It feels the same it always has. If it's dying, it's been dying for a long time."

Tweek nods, though Craig cannot tell if he actually agrees with him or if he is just trying to shut him up. Craig fingers the buttons on the camera, smoothing over the warm plastic and reading the small prints on the keys before zooming in a bit and focusing on Stan Marsh's guarded expression of disdain for the party around him as he texts fervently. Red shouts across the room that if Stan is just going to mope, he ought to get the fuck out, but the man does not bother to respond.

Craig does not know if he thinks South Park is dying, or maybe it has been dead since the beginning. He doesn't know the history of the town, and he doesn't remember his feelings about the place ever truly changing. He grew older, but he never grew out of South Park. Around him are the the other kids who never grew out of it either. Craig thinks of goldfish as he takes in the faces of kids he always sees in the back rooms of these parties.

"You wanna hit, Michael Moore? You'll have to pay for it."

Craig glares at Kenny even as he pulls a ten from his wallet, wads it up, and throws it at the blonde. Kenny does not fetch it off the floor right away. He levels Craig with a look that the dark haired man is pointedly ignoring. "One hit. Make it a good one," Kenny says as he passes the bong to Stan before practically crawling off his throne to pick up the cash.

Craig does make it count. He pulls his blue lighter from his jacket pocket and sets the weed ablaze as he sucks hard. He releases his thumb from the hole in the side and the smoke fills his mouth. He swallows it down to his lungs and breathes out slow, closing his eyes and letting himself relax. When his lungs are empty and he can fill them with fresh air, he turns to Tweek, who still looks nervous. "Your turn."

Tweek shakes his head quickly, "No! No, not tonight."

"Are you straightedge?" Craig raises an eyebrow. He knows he has been in this room with him before and he could have sworn that Tweek was doing drugs with the rest of them, but Craig knows he does not have a brilliant eye for detail when it comes to anything but film.

"Gah! What? No! I just... don't want it."

Craig stares at him a moment before passing the bong back the way it came. He leans against the wall behind him, relaxing his muscles and breathing deep. He can recognize good weed instantaneously. Kenny usually has worthwhile stuff, but this exceeds his expectations. It's a slow high, lapping up his torso to his head in small waves. It feels like what he imagines a beach to be like, easy and free. The next time the Blacks offer to bring him somewhere, he should go. He should partake in the life experiences he needs to be a filmmaker. Token wants to make a modern On The Road, and Craig doesn't even know what that means.

He opens his eyes and he's still in South Park. He's in a house he has never been in before and Tweek Tweak is sitting beside him fidgeting with Craig's blue lighter. "Good weed," he tells the blonde because he wouldn't mind a little company.

"Smells like it."

Craig cannot help laughing at that statement. The kid on the other side of Craig is handing him the bong and he takes it, plucking his lighter from Tweek's bony fingers and lighting the plant to inhale its high into his lungs. He breathes out nearly colorless smoke. He wants to buy a bag off Kenny, which isn't favorable because he just doesn't like him very much. They used to smoke cigarettes behind the gym in high school and they worked together at Whistlin' Willy's, but Kenny was too clingy for his taste. He would linger around too much and ask too many questions. When Craig wouldn't answer him, Kenny would start talking. Kenny isn't the worst person in the world, but that doesn't make him pleasant to be around. Every time Craig opens his wallet around the guy he worries it will be an invitation for invasive conversation. If he opens his mouth now, his sloppy tongue would betray him.

"Are you okay?"

When Craig looks at Tweek, he realizes he has been trying to get Craig's attention for some time. He nods and picks up his camera, turning it to Tweek's face. The man looks a little nervous, but guarded with a small, uneasy smile like he's trying to cover up his trademark jumpiness. He would not recognize the shape of his mouth to be a smile if it weren't for the very slight upturn in one corner. The amber of his eyes is bright in the dim desktop lamp light that barely fills the room. Craig thinks of foreign films about manic pixie dream girls. "Don't smile for the camera," He tells Tweek. "It doesn't want your happiness."

"I wasn't, I don't," He stumbles on his words.

"Documentaries are supposed to be sad. If you smile I can't put you in it."

Tweek laughs. "That's ridiculous. If Token wants a video about the death of South Park, he'll get it whether people are smiling or not."

"Then you may as well be high for it."

Tweek's smile slips off his face as he considers Craig's suggestion for a moment before waving to Red to pass the bong his way. The camera watches its journey from Red to Wes to Richard to Tweek. It looks beautiful in different types of hands, big and small. Craig knows Token has to keep this shot, barely legal marijuana being intimately passed around in a dark room. The doped-up generation of youth in the town are the direct result of the insanity their parents are leaving behind. He turns the camera to Tweek, whose head is bowed over the mouth of the bong as he lights and inhales. It's not graceful the way smoking looks on Kenny or Richard, it looks messy and strange, but when Tweek tilts his head back to exhale, his pale lashes have the dampness of tears from the dry heat of smoke, and it's a beautiful shot. Craig lowers the camera from where it was held up to his eye.

Across the room, Kenny is watching him carefully as he sets the video camera in his lap. Kenny never explicitly asked him to turn it off, so he should not feel as strange as he does. The blonde has an expression of curiosity on his face that Craig does not want to deal with, so he turns the camera to Red, who is now laying on the floor and dragging her finger over her iPhone screen as she plays a game. She cusses when she loses and Richard rolls his eyes, saying under his breath but loud enough for the camera to pick up that mindless people only care about things that don't matter. Red smiles almost like she's laughing, but does not look at him. She is high enough not to care.

Kahlua snorts and groans as she lifts herself onto her short legs, which are thin in comparison to the rest of her, and waddles over to Stanwhere she spins in a slow, painful circle and flops down again alongside his thigh.

"What's wrong?" Tweek asks, and Craig turns his camera from the dog to the man sitting beside him.

"What?" Craig asks dumbly.

"You made a face."

"That's just what his face looks like!" Kenny mock-yells across the room, his hands cupping his mouth.

Craig flips him off as he says to Tweek, low so that Kenny does not interrupt them again, even though he wants to insult the bastard to his face, "I hate dogs, but I especially hate that thing."

"Kahlua?" Tweek mouths and Craig nods.

"Guinea pigs are so much cooler."

"Don't you, uh, work in a pet store?"

Craig feels his face warm up on its own accord, which is embarrassing in its own right and makes the heat worse. He should not feel embarrassed. "Yeah, but they're gross. They're just like, wild animals that people accept into their homes. Jason's family used to have this huge fucking dog that they'd gate in the kitchen and it was completely fucking insane, barked at the top of its lungs every time people would come in the house. It's gross."

"Rocky. I hated that dog."

Craig stares at him for a moment and the two of them collapse into laughter. It's a warm sensation, warmer than the high he is feeling. His shoulder knocks up against Tweek's and it stays there, comfortable and sure.

"Fucking so gross," Craig repeats. "I have guinea pigs. Two right now, but there are two at the store that I'm thinking of adopting. Celeste and Coraline."

"Are you serious? You still have guinea pigs? I thought that was a joke."

Craig straightens up and gives Tweek what he hopes is a serious, judgemental face. "My guinea pigs are never a joke, regardless of what happened in Peru."

"What happened in Peru?"

"You wouldn't understand," Craig says solemnly, then cracks, falling into laughter and feeling grateful when Tweek joins him. He likes laughing when he's high. He knows that if he isn't with Token and Clyde, he tends to fall into a solemn peace when he's high, not talking to anyone and not needing to fill his hands or his mind with senseless literature. With his best friends, a high is a high speed rollercoaster that eventually comes to a nostalgic stop, but being high with Tweek isn't so terrible either.

"So what do you do?" Craig asks when he can think clearly.

"I'm kind of in college."

"Kind of? How are you 'kind of' in college?"

"Well, the, the future. I don't know what I want to do. I'm in slow motion. Right now I'm in a figure drawing class."

"What's that, naked people?"

Tweek twitches his head hard to the right. "Y-yep! It's awful. All those naked people. I start to feel naked! I'd probably be better at it if I didn't feel so naked. I just look at them and feel guilty."

"There's nothing wrong with being naked."

"Gah! Of course you'd say that!" Tweek says with his eyebrows raised high. "You're the guy in tank top when it's snowing."

Craig is wearing the long-sleeved black shirt he has to wear under his PetSteps polo to cover most-but certainly not all-of his tattoos below the work line. The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows for some semblance of cool, but he certainly isn't exposed, like he often is. Craig's fuzzy mind is telling him that Tweek pays attention, and it makes him chuckle again.

"I'd love to live somewhere that didn't snow three days a week," Craig tells him.

"So you could be even more naked?"

Craig nods, feeling himself come down as he looks in the amber eyes, "Hell yeah."

"Ugh, you're weird."

"You don't want to live somewhere warm?"

Tweek looks around the room, eyes lingering on the kids that Craig does not care about. They are hardly doing anything worth noting, as his camera knows. Craig wants the eye contact again. He needs something to look at before his hands and his head become restless. "I hear California is cool, if you're into that sort of thing."

"My aunt lives in LA," Tweek tells him. "I don't have to live somewhere south, just somewhere with less snow."

"Fair enough."

Craig's phone vibrates in his pocket, and he sets his camera down in his lap to read the text message. Savannah needs a ride home from a friend's house. He is feeling a little more sober now than he was fifteen minutes ago, he could do the drive if he stays slow, and the address is nearby so Savannah can spot him for most of the drive, but he is not keen on leaving. Tweek is looking at him, and glancing down at his phone, trying to read his face and his messages. Craig types back that he will be there soon. He meets Tweek's questioning gaze.

"Gotta go," He says and stands up.

Tweek opens his mouth and quickly shuts it again, his left lower eyelid twitching as he blatantly thinks of something to say. Craig watches his process for a moment until Tweek spits out, "Driving! You're... you can drive?"

"Yes?" Craig responds, waiting for more.

"But the weed."

"Oh." He looks at the camera in his hand pointed at Tweek. From above he can see him, he's kind of small and unassuming-looking. Craig might pass him by on another day. "I'm fine."

Tweek does not say anything more, he just lets out a grunt when he twitches, so Craig picks up his camera and walks out of the room without a word to anyone else.

_18:11:31 Dec 1 2012_

Token comes downstairs, one arm supporting a large pizza fresh from the oven and his other hand wrapped around the neck of an unopened two liter bottle of pepsi.

"Come on," he tells Kyle, who seems a few seconds away from slamming his head against the desk. "Take a break."

Kyle wheels his office chair towards Token's expansive desk, where there is enough room for them to set the pizza down, a few paper plates and then some. Token watches Kyle grab a slice and begin to eat, while his eyes drift from screen to screen and take in the footage Token is currently paused on.

"Are you finding anything good for your thesis?"

Token nods, taking a few long drinks of soda.

"Yes. I finally have a direction for this thing."

To answer Kyle's unspoken question about what direction that is, Token scrolls the footage back to a marker he left on it. He hits play and the scene starts at the bland front door of a South Park home. Craig's inked hand is seen in the frame for a moment as he pushes the door open and then it retreats, leaving the camera to float lonesome through the crowd of people.

Craig seems to know where he's going tonight, or at least, he knows where he isn't going to go. The camera does not pause to take in any of the other party-goers, and it skips right past the kitchen, where Craig usually stops to grab a drink. Token drags his notepad towards him, without his eyes leaving the screen. Kyle hands him a pen, and Token whispers "thanks."

The frame moves upstairs and from the slight bounce, Token can tell Craig is trying to keep the camera still as he jogs. When he reaches the top landing, Craig pauses, the camera showing the path of his eyes as he studies each door and settles on the bedroom door that is left slightly ajar. Craig pushes it open and sitting in a circle on the floor is the usual group, clouded by the smoke of a communal bong.

Craig sweeps the camera from right to left, briefly taking in the faces of Stan and Kenny, Wesley and Richard, and three high school boys Token doesn't know. He knows from a previous viewing of this footage that Milly, Red and Heidi are there too, but for now, they go unseen. Craig stopped the camera once he reached his target. Kyle and Token watch as Craig zooms in on Tweek's face. The other boy melts from nervous uncertainty to a genuine smile upon seeing Craig. Token notes the timestamp.

"Camera off!" Kenny demands.

Craig does not oblige, keeping the camera rolling as he moves forward and takes a seat beside Tweek where the other man has readjusted to make room for him. Briefly, they get a look at Kenny's disappointed expression, but South Park's notorious dealer seems to give up on Craig. "Fine," he warns, "but all sales off camera. And if I catch you-"

Token and Kyle don't get to hear the rest of Kenny's threat, because Craig is swinging the camera back to Tweek, who flinches with the lens so near to his face.

"Gah! We all got used to you carrying a camera around in highschool, but, uh, this is a little more intense."

Craig doesn't respond, setting the camera down on the floor in front of them. Craig wedges the toe of his Docs under the front of the camera to give it enough lift, and Tweek and Craig's bodies comes back into frame. "Better?" Craig asks, gesturing towards the camera on the floor.

Tweek nods, but looks skeptically at the camera, as if any second it may strike. A hand from off frame passes the bong to Tweek, who takes it, seemingly grateful for the distraction. They try to hand him a lighter, but he shakes his head, reaching into the front pocket on his shirt and pulling out his own. Craig is watching Tweek, who is repacking the bowl from a plastic bag of bud nestled between his crossed legs.

Craig leans back against the wall as Tweek inhales, his lips pressed into the wide mouth of the pipe, pulling hot white smoke into the glass neck of the piece. Craig crosses his legs, dislodging the camera. He pulls off his hat, folds it into a square, and uses it to get the camera back into its proper position. Once the frame is still, Token pauses the footage and takes a screenshot before hitting play once more.

With the smoke still in his lungs, Tweek passes the bong to Craig, who also borrows his lighter. Craig takes a couple hits in a row, trying to catch up to the rest of the people in the room, who almost always get to parties before him and get stoned long before he's pulling out the PetSteps lot and racing there. Craig makes eye contact with someone across the circle and leans over the camera to pass the bong to an anonymous user.

Settling into their highs, the men lean back against the wall. Craig has a satisfied smirk creeping across his lips and Tweek's face reads the slack relief of the calming substance. Tweek runs one of his hands back and forth erratically on his scalp, his eyes falling shut for a few moments. Craig scratches his head. Token takes a screenshot.

"You think these rooms are going to get more crowded once smoke shops actually start carrying weed?" Craig muses, glancing around the room at the regulars.

Tweek lurches out of his haze, eyes snapping open and glancing over at Craig. He takes a deep breath and centers himself. "Nah. It's not like everyone downstairs doesn't smoke weed already. They're just party users- recreational users. All of us up here have a reason to use. No one here is here for the party, everyone is here for the high. You- you know, a quiet room, and a quiet high."

Craig's eyes narrow skeptically, turning to face Tweek, who is smiling in a way that tells Craig that this is his specialty.

"Heidi for example," Tweek begins. Craig leans forward, grabbing his camera and spinning it on the floor so it points towards their subject. "Gave up. Started smoking uh... senior year of high school, after struggling to pull B's and C's for the last few years, decided she probably wasn't ever going to go to college. Traded studying for the false comfort cannabis supplies."

Tweek's voice is low while they gossip, and Token's pen hovers over his notepad, where the dialogue of the scene has been scribbled down, changing the occasional word once he hears it better. He's going to have to add subtitles if he uses this footage.

"Red," Tweek moves on, the camera readjusting as well. "Heartbreak. Dated Kenny... a couple times I think. Don't think she ever took a hit until he encouraged her to. Ugh, people will do anything for a crush. Now she smokes as an excuse to see him."

The bubbling sound from behind the camera suggests that Craig has the bong back in his hands and is taking another hit. Token misses the commentary on Milly, but when Tweek is moving on to Wes and Richard, the bong has gone silent.

"Immaturity. Goth kids grow up too fast. They were smoking cigarettes when we were eight, so when most high schoolers are trying tobacco, they're trying weed. When we had our first drinks, they were doing MDMA. I don't think those two can even remember having fun without the use of drugs."

The camera catches Richard placing a pill in Wesley's palm. They both pop their heads back.

Next in line is Stan, who is sitting with his knees pulled into his chest and his head on his knees. The bong is standing beside him, his fingers lazily running up and down the neck.

"Depression."

The camera shifts to Kenny.

"Money."

Kenny notices them and glares. Craig quickly spins the camera back to focus on Tweek and himself. Tweek has been leaning close to Craig, whispering his knowledge into Craig's ear. Token watches Craig lean back quickly as Tweek does the same, his observing eyes now falling to his friend.

"You use because you're bored."

Craig doesn't seem too bothered with Tweek's observation of himself. South Park is a boring place, and Token can recall countless times that Craig blames South Park's monotony for his delinquent behavior. Tweek runs his palms over his thighs, the pressure slightly changing the color of his olive corduroys. Craig places his hands on his knees, gently squeezing his legs through his work slacks. Token takes a screenshot and Kyle lets out a single laugh in quiet disbelief.

"And why are you here?" Craig asks.

Tweek's face changes expressions for half a second, as if he wanted to scream or bolt like he's done so many times in their childhood, but he is able to overcome it, smiling gently.

"Makes me less jumpy," he answers simply. "Helps calm me down."

Token pauses the film, sitting back in his chair and looking at Kyle.

"Let me see those screenshots," the redhead requests.

Token pulls them up on another monitor, flipping through the three he just took and a few others he took another time he watched the material. In every frame, the boys are oddly symmetrical. If one has their arms crossed, so does the other. If someone is touching their hair, the other copies. Token pulls up a few screenshots he took from a few minutes past the scene he's currently paused on. Tweek is smiling, and a rare sight, so is Craig. The dark haired man's eyes are locked on the face of the pale, flighty person beside him, calculating his every move.

"He's mimicking him," Kyle scoffs.

Token nods, laughing softly to himself.

"Dude. Craig is into him. Craig is into Tweek."

"Yes, he is," Token states, slamming his notepad down on the desk and taking a celebratory slice of pizza.

"Oh my god," Kyle laughs. "This is going to be a fucking disaster."


	3. Chapter 3

_22:22:56 Dec 1 2012_

"Get up."

Craig lifts his head and squints through the dark of his room at the silhouette of his sister standing in the door.

"What do you want?" he groans.

"I need a ride to a friend's house."

Reluctantly, Craig obliges. He swings his legs out of bed and toes on a pair of sneakers. Savannah tosses him one of his zip ups that was sitting on the floor. He checks the battery on the Canon that was watching him sleep, and before pulling the sweater over his head, he switches the current battery for one that's been on standby charging. He considers leaving his phone, but imagines how shitty it would be to get into a car accident in his boxers with no ride home, and grabs it last minute. Half dressed and camera in hand, he follows his sister to his car, where she is already in the passenger seat, reaching across the center console to turn the ignition.

"Where am I going?" Craig asks through a yawn, putting his car in reverse and listening to the snow crunch beneath his wheels. Savannah fidgets with the radio for a few moments, but gives up.

"Sierra Madre."

Craig smokes a cigarette out the window and ignores his sister's complaints about the cold air he's letting in. It is cold; his bare legs are covered in goosebumps and his lips are trembling, but the drive to Sierra Madre Avenue traverses town and is boring. He feels better doing something with his hands other than holding a steering wheel straight.

He pulls up the familiar street a few minutes later. Token's house is at the very top of the road, far past the other houses, on its own windy private path. Muscle memory has him heading for his best friend's house, and his stupor is interrupted by his sister's frustration.

"Stop the car, Craig."

He slams the brakes and the car slides a few feet in the snow. She gasps and glares at him. Rolling his eyes, Craig puts the car in park and adjusts the Canon from where it's slid around slightly on the drive. The younger Tucker is taking her time pulling on gloves and a hat, checking herself in the sunshade mirror and putting on another layer of lipstick. He doesn't understand women. Craig grabs an empty hot pocket sleeve from the makeshift trash can that is his car's backseat and aimlessly reads the directions on how to heat up and eat the ham and cheese snack.

The sound of the car door opening and shutting alerts Craig that his sister has finished her touch up and he is alone. He tosses his cigarette out the window and rolls it up, letting the heat actually fill the car rather than getting sucked outside into South Park's hungry chill. He puts the car back into drive and starts looking for a driveway to make a u-turn in. There's a ton of cars on the avenue today, and feeling irritated that every driveway wide enough to cater to his old car's poor steering hasn't been shoveled, Craig speeds off up the hill and adds an extra five minutes to his trip home just so he can turn around in the Black's expansive circular drive.

On the way back down Sierra Madre, Craig is finally waking up and it finally registers how strange it is for the street to be so crowded so late at night. His sister has long disappeared, but Craig slows the car to try to pinpoint what house she could have gone inside. Suddenly, it clicks. His eyes sweep around behind him to Firkle's house, curtains pulled shut to hide the activity inside. His calculating gaze then shifts to the cars parked along the avenue until they zero in on a 2007 black Jeep Liberty. Craig flips to the photo album on his phone, and scrolling past a few dozen pictures he took of his guinea pigs earlier, finds the most recent photo of this week's work schedule. He always works on Sundays, but praise Kyle, he doesn't go in until one pm.

Craig throws his car in reverse and drives backwards the entire narrow road back to Token's house. Speed dial brings Token's voice on the line.

"What's up, dude?"

"I'm at your house," Craig says, climbing out of his Honda. "And I'm half naked. I need to borrow some clothes."

"Bizarre. Alarms are off and door is unlocked. I'll meet you in my bedroom."

Craig grabs the camera and jogs up to the front door, pushing it open and sighing in relief when the heated home starts to warm his frozen skin. He moves up the stairs to Token's room, where his best friend is standing and staring into his walk in closet. He laughs when he sees Craig, and Craig flips him off.

"How the hell did you end up on my side of town in a pair of boxers and a hoodie? I'm impressed you even have shoes on."

"No socks," Craig confirms.

"So what do you want to wear?" Token asks.

"The most normal thing you have," Craig insists. "No kilts."

"I don't own a kilt," Token scoffs. "Yet."

Craig steps into the closet behind Token. It's a large space containing an impressive collection of clothes that have been almost entirely thrifted from hundreds of shopping trips he and Token went on in the past eight years. Craig has always had to shop cheap, growing up in a poor family, and he taught a fourteen year old Token how to find decent clothes off the rack at the Salvation Army. Craig takes personal pride in Token's absurd amount of eccentric clothing. This entire collection can't have possible cost any more than two or three hundred dollars. Token's style veered away from Craig's personal taste preferences around their junior year of high school, but it doesn't change the fact that this was Craig's doing. Token can afford anything he wants, but he still chooses to go on shopping trips with Craig to thrift stores when he needs something new.

He catches a pair of charcoal slacks that Token tosses his way and after studying them for a brief moment, Craig slips out of his shoes and pulls them on. They fit, but Craig opts to grab a silver belt from a rack of nearly a hundred others anyway. Token passes him a simple black button down and when Craig goes to pick his worn navy hoodie off the floor, Token clicks his tongue disapprovingly. He passes Craig a heavy cardigan, the heather grey wool knit with a subtle shine, nautical closures down the front and shiny black buttons decorating the shoulder pieces. It's a bit flashy, but he'll make it work.

"Here," Token says, handing Craig a pair of boots, clean socks tucked in them, "I have extra Docs."

Craig finishes getting dressed and both men turn to study Craig in the mirror. Token turns an extra light on above him.

"There, you look like a million bucks. Where are you going?"

"To a party," Craig answers, then hesitates. He struggles to act like a socially acceptable human being and friend. Fighting to hide his true feelings Craig asks a weak, "...would you like to come?"

"No, thanks," Token nods. "I'm working on homework downstairs. You go, have fun."

"Cool," Craig sighs. He picks the Canon up from the shelf where he had set it. With a grateful head nod towards his friend, Craig departs, letting his borrowed boots thunk down the stairs and out the door.

He leaves his car at Token's, knowing it's probably the best spot he'll find, but he stops by to grab his pack of cigarettes, needing the small paper wrapped flame to keep him warm on the ten minute walk to Firkle's house.

The butt he flicks at Stan's car marks the third cigarette he's had in twenty minutes, and Craig is already feeling light headed as he approaches the front door, but the exhilaration of a party causes the dizziness to temporarily render him weak. His night has been boring so far; he spent a few hours trying to masturbate and a few more asleep, and he didn't expect to find such good news following his sister's rude wake up call. Craig leans against the door to catch his breath, before gripping the cold door knob and pushing it open.

He is grateful he does not run into his little sister as he grabs a beer from the kitchen and jogs up the stairs to Firkle's room. However, his relief dissipates back into anxiety when he sees the quantity of people grouped around Kenny and Stan. Kenny is too preoccupied trading drugs for wads of cash to notice his appearance in the room. Craig curiously watches Kenny hand a ziploc of unmarked blue pills to a high school aged girl he's never seen before. He breaks Kenny's rule of no sales on camera and zooms in on the transaction. However, Stan is apathetically watching him, and with a slight shake of his head, Craig takes his signal to turn away.

It takes a few moments to pinpoint his target, the pale boy looking frail in the crowded room. Craig moves towards Tweek, shedding his borrowed cardigan as he goes, letting it fail to the floor and kicking it off to the side. The button up Token lent him is already short sleeved, but he gives each sleeve an extra cuff. Tweek is shaking his head at him and Craig shrugs, dropping to the floor where the other man has repositioned to make room.

"There's too many people in here," Craig muses, his camera between his own face and the one of the person he is speaking to.

"Gah! Right!?" Tweek jerks, almost shouting, as if Craig verbalized the one thing that's been irritating him all day. "Way too many people. It's way too loud!"

"Have you been here for long?"

"Yes! Too long! Gah, I've been here for like, an hour. I thought you weren't going to be here, shit!"

Craig watches through the viewfinder as the thin, pale creature beside him jumps to his feet, then seeming to immediately change his mind, crouch back to the floor. Sitting on his heels, Tweek is swimming in his oversized clothes, his shaking hands mostly hidden beneath stretched cuffs. Craig narrows his eyes, taken aback by Tweek's intensity. Craig finds himself lowering the Canon to the floor, and setting it in between their bodies. The other man is looking at him, his eyes flickering with uncertainty and an obvious inability to focus. Craig likes to think they've become friends over the past few parties, but this flinching, squirrelly man is hardly recognizable.

"Dude, are you on something?"

"What?! Ugh, no! That's the problem!"

"Jesus, then smoke or something. What were you waiting for?"

"I don't know! You, I guess!"

Craig lets out a mouthful of breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He nods, turning his attention towards Kenny, it is impossible to grab his old classmate's attention through the throngs of thrill-seeking teenagers. Stan is the one who seems to feel the burn of Craig's gaze, and the other man slowly turns his head to meet Craig's eyes. Stan carefully sets his beer down, and rises to his feet.

"What do you want, Tucker?" Stan groans, walking a few steps across the room into his direction.

"What do you have, Marsh?"

"Indica, Satvia, Spice, Molly, Vikes," Stan answers, a hand on his forehead, rubbing away either a headache or frustration.

"Molly," comes Tweek's voice from beside Craig, his eyes wide with fascination.

"You want to do X?" Craig asks in surprise. "At a house party?"

"Why- Why not?!" Tweek suggests.

Craig shrugs, looking from Tweek back to Stan, who is already back at Kenny and digging through his partner's backpack. He comes back to the two men on the wall and is holding a couple plastic bags. He frowns down at them, and Craig is bothered by his judgmental eyes. Tweek shrieks from beside him.

"Twenty for a bag of two. No sharing."

"How about ten for one?" Craig groans. "You guys are the worst."

"No. Plus, one tab is 100 mg, you're going to want both. And it's an extra five for a test kit."

Tweek is already handing Stan a twenty, and Craig follows suit, slapping a middle finger on the bill before passing it to the black haired drunk standing before them.

"We'll take our chances," Craig tells him, denying the Stan and Kenny the extra profit.

They make their exchange, and Stan is swearing something to himself as he wanders back to Kenny. Craig offers Tweek to share his Heineken, and unceremoniously, they both take their hits of baby blue.

"So you were waiting for me?" Craig asks, indulging in the ego boost.

"Fuck! I guess? What was I supposed to think? Ah, nevermind!"

"I didn't even know there was a party tonight. I was out doing other things and drove by. What's your phone number? Text me next time you're going somewhere."

"Agh! I don't have a phone!" Tweek wails, his hands flying up and covering his face. Craig recoils.

"You don't have a phone? How the hell do you survive?" Craig asks in disbelief, unable to comprehend a man in his early twenties not having a cellphone, his mind refusing to even question the circumstances that led to such a misfortune.

His head shakes from behind his hands, mumbling, "Facebook?"

Craig shrugs, picking up his camera and adjusting the aperture so he can better take in the environment of the dim room. There are a ton of kids in here tonight, and while Craig is aware that Firkle is still in high school, he's used to seeing the guy surrounded by Wes, Michael and Henrietta, not the groups of awkward sixteen somethings spilling their booze and kissing regrettable decisions. He zooms in on the face of the lavender haired host, who is laughing and shoving away a girl that is attempting to crawl over him and towards the bed, where there are multiple parties making out.

"Hey, Hollywood!" Firkle shouts playfully in his direction. "Get my good side."

Longing to avoid any sort of interest in him or his Canon, Craig lowers the equipment, setting it between his thigh and Tweek's boots once more.

"When should we start feeling it?"

"I don't know!" Tweek answers, his eyes snapping to Craig's face. "I've never rolled before."

"Huh, me neither," Craig says. "I guess we'll find out."

"Uppers aren't really my thing," Tweek confesses.

"So why tonight?"

"Gah, I'm not sure! Trying to find a new kind of high. Why do you ask so many questions?!"

Craig blows air loudly through his mouth. He'll be grateful when the high kicks in, because so far, this night hasn't been to worth getting dressed for. He studies Tweek, who is staring out into the room. Despite his erratic behavior, Craig still finds the other man attractive and he finds himself battling the same feelings that tormented him during his high school years. The desire to watch Tweek's fingers as they crawl slowly down his long, pale neck is outweighed by the intense desire not to be caught staring.

"Craig Tucker?"

He is queasy as he lurches out of his daze to look up at the origin of his name. Firkle is standing in front of him, and Craig suddenly feels small sitting on the floor in the guy's bedroom. He is flanked by Wes and Michael. The trio, still in black, is offset only by the sequins on Firkle's strap-on fairy wings.

"That's me."

"We have a proposition for you. Our friend Henrietta, she's your age, maybe you know her?"

"Yeah. The fat one?"

Tweek gasps from beside him, and Wes and Michael's eyes both seem to narrow in characteristic disappointment. Firkle smiles broadly.

"Yes," he answers. "The fat one. She's playing at an open mic in North Park next week. I'd love for her to have some nicely shot footage of her early years for when she hits it big one day. I know the owner of the club, I'll pay you in no cover and unlimited drinks for you and your date."

Firkle's eyes slide over to Tweek, who screams this time. Craig rolls his eyes in the direction of the date in question.

"You wanna go?"

"What?! No! I mean, yeah. Yes, sure."

"Fine, just raw footage. I'm not an editor," Craig answers skeptically, his eyes still on the uncentered man he chose to spend his evening with rather than the one he's speaking to. "What's the date?"

"The sixth. Open mic starts at eight."

Craig and Firkle exchange numbers and when the threesome of half-hearted gothic attire departs, Craig finds himself feeling oddly empowered. That was sort of a career move. He's filming something for someone other than Token for once, and for a few moments, he entertains the idea of becoming a professional filmmaker. Craig imagines himself touring with bands, shooting music videos and conducting interviews. He grapples for his camera on the floor, lifting it to his face before giving the room a good sweep. He is suddenly hyper-focused on the acts of young adult depravity and Craig feels proud of the anonymous girl getting fingered under her skirt on Firkle's bed. These are the kinds of things he'll think back on, one day, when he's famous.

When his panning falls to Tweek beside him, Craig is happy to see the other man has finally relaxed. The unfamiliar feeling of Tweek's hand resting as light as a feather on his thigh clues Craig into the sound of a relieved sigh leaving the other's lips. The other man seems to be listening to something beautiful through the ears that stick out from the side of his head like satellite dishes. He is aware of how much they must miss at these parties spending their time locked in a hot box with the same few users every week. The hall is a highway to different thoughts, feelings and experiences. There is much more outside this small world they're so passively sitting in, and Craig wants to see it all with Tweek.

"Come on," Craig tells him, "Let's go walk around."

Tweek nods, slow but certain, and he climbs to his feet after Craig. They walk out of the room and are washed in cool air. It smells a bit like teenager: perfume and sweat in excess, but it feels clean compared to the weed and tobacco smoke filling Firkle's bedroom. Craig wonders how Firkle manages to host these parties as he watches a baby jock try to slide down the Vargas' lavish banister. Beside him, Tweek cringes as the boy falls and smacks his head against the edge of a step, but he wobbles to his feet and high-fives his friends, surviving the near-death experience and not even seeming to realize it.

"Do you- Ah! High school is not what they show on tv."

Craig turns to the man standing next to him who is watching the people in the upstairs hallway, pale forehead crinkled with thoughts. It is beautiful to watch him think.

"You know, like, Degrassi, and Glee, and shit," His face turns pink with the admittance of being familiar with those shows. "Yeah, everyone is focused on themselves and doing things for their own gain, but high school on television and in movies isn't reckless. Real life is scary, everyone is stretching themselves way beyond their means."

Craig turns the camera to Tweek's face. He's close, so close as he films him. He wants to capture the fascinating thought process on film.

"You know that when you're a teenager, the part of your brain that processes like, repercussions and shit isn't developed yet. So once you pass the early stages of puberty and you realize you just have to deal with the shit being handed to you and try not to look like terrified in the process, your brain thinks it's okay to speed on a snowy road and drink until you puke and fucking like, snowboard off your roof." Craig has the modesty to chuckle uncomfortably at the last item. "TV doesn't show it like that. There's no danger or fear involved in tv high school even though there have been three school shootings this year."

Craig does not say anything right away, watching the twitching uncertainty in Tweek's face. He seems mostly calm, more akin to what he was like when he first appeared in Token's bedroom with a freshly shaved head and minimal eye contact.

"You keep track of school shootings?"

Tweek gives him a look that makes him snap his lips shut. "I keep track of people snowboarding off their roofs too, but you don't seem too concerned about that."

"Are you talking about me? That was not real snowboarding, my parents cannot afford something like that."

"Ugh! Sitting on a cardboard box is not better!"

Craig rolls his eyes, turning the camera out to watch some girls giggling together even though his focus is solely on Tweek. "That wasn't the worst thing, I survived."

"Gah! Clyde broke his tailbone! You both could have died!"

Craig laughs, remembering the way Clyde curled up in the foot and a half of show and cried. "I can't believe you were there for that."

"What? We were friends in high school. Kind of."

"I guess so," Craig says, studying the man beside him. He certainly does not look like any friend he has ever had beyond elementary school, when they used to go to Whistlin' Willy's for pizza and arcade games with Kevin. Even in the early years of high school when he had his acquaintances, Tweek was never one of them. "Were you Clyde or Token's friend?"

Tweek twitches at the tone in Craig's voice. Craig knows it sounds like he intended, that Tweek had to be one of their friends and not his. "Clyde's, I guess."

"Yeah, had to be Clyde."

"Gah! What's that supposed to mean!"

Craig leans back and rolls his eyes. "Just that Token is the nicest guy in the world, but Clyde has this thing for... he's empathetic, I guess." Tweek is glaring at him, full glaring. His eyelid and neck are barely twitching through the concentrated anger. Craig knows what he is saying is irritating Tweek, but he keeps an impassive expression on his face to combat Tweek's anger, his hands feel warm and damp on the camera. "Clyde just likes people more. Not that you're unlikeable. You- Clyde- He's a mother. "

Tweek's gaze gets harder, freezes, and then he bursts into laughter, genuine laughter that lacks the biting tone his words should have, "You think I'm some loser in distress or something. That's hysterical, Craig Tucker."

"Not me. Clyde."

Tweek shakes his head, "I like Clyde. I thought you and I were kind of cool in high school, but I see I was wrong."

"No, no," Craig says, his eyes closing as he lifts a little further into his high. "You're fine. It's all me. Just me. He's the one on the world-saving mission. It's a very altruistic mission. I've never seen anything like it. Part of me is always waiting for his evil side to appear."

"Clyde is a good friend."

"He's like my only friend," Craig laughs.

Tweek is not laughing. He observes Craig, smiling like he did not say something terribly heartbreaking. The camera stays focused on Tweek's face. His thin lips drop open like he wants to say something, but no words comes out. Instead, he is stuck with an expression of affronted confusion.

"And Token. Two friends."

"I-" Tweek begins, looking away from the camera at a linked boy and a girl shoving past them. "That's sad."

Craig leans back against the wall, following the rude couple with his camera to ensure their drunken shenanigans were caught on tape. Once they turn a corner, he lets them go, turning back to a few guys with beers in their hands conversing loudly on the stairs. "They've always been my friends. What about you, Mr. Popularity?"

Tweek jumps when camera and the question turn on him. "Me? I don't know, I feel like I'm friends with everyone and no one. I like everyone, and they pretend to like me. I can accept that. I have accepted that. I can bounce around easily. It gives me less time to focus on myself. I can't get too selfish when I have twenty friends to appease."

"Wow," Craig sighs and zooms in so Tweek's face fills the camera. "That's deep. That's like, super heavy stuff."

"Stop," Tweek frowns at the punch of sarcasm.

"No!" Craig ejactulates, trying to repair the conversation. "I mean it. It's foreign to me. I think the last time I had twenty friends was when we were in baseball as kids. I wonder how I would have turned out differently if I had more friends in high school."

"I'm not sure you could have turned out differently," Tweek muses, his head tilting to the side as he studies Craig through the camera. "You isolated yourself. No one did it to you."

Maybe it's the ecstasy, but for once, Craig doesn't feel the chilling panic he normally feels when someone turns a critical eye to him. He lets Tweek look at him. Slowly, Craig lowers the camera so that there is nothing between the two of them. Tweek seems to be able to view Craig for what he is- nothing special, and yet, Tweek doesn't seem to hate him like the other ninety nine percent of South Park does.

"Sometimes things are supposed to happen in a certain way to lead to where you're supposed to be."

Craig nods at Tweek's words. He tries not to fall for sensationalist bullshit like that, but the words falling from Tweek's lips must be divine truth, because Craig feels like he is standing before the face of God.

"Perhaps we were meant to re-meet each other in our twenties. Had you not isolated yourself throughout high school, we may have been better friends back then, but it never lasts. We wouldn't be here talking to each other right now, and I feel like I was meant to be here talking to you right now."

"I feel the same way."

A rare and dazzling sight, Tweek's face bursts into a wide smile, his eyes cast downwards. Part of Craig doesn't want to moment to pass, but he takes a step back and encourages it to do so. He doesn't know enough about Tweek to let himself feel this way. He picks his camera back up and pans around the room for a moment before zooming back in on Tweek's face. The other man is looking back up at him, and there is a peaceful serenity on Tweek's face that Craig is happy to see there. Drugs are a beautiful thing, he thinks to himself. They equalize, bringing souls to the place their subconscious longs to be. From nervous to assured, from restless to content.

"We are better people when we're high," Craig laughs.

"I was born to be high," Tweek chuckles, leaning his head against the wall but fully facing Craig and his camera.

"I'm thirsty."

Tweek leads the way to the kitchen, and Craig films from behind him, taking in the scenes of the party as teenagers that are too drunk to stand somehow manage to jump to the side and make way for Craig and Tweek. They weave through people reduced to messes, sobbing or throwing back alcohol. It seems both foolish and profound. Craig tries to capture every face on camera, taking their lack of sobriety as consent.

In the kitchen, Tweek stops and looks around nervously, eyeing the empty bag of Solo cups. Craig's free hand grabs two used cups and holds them out to an apprehensive Tweek. The blonde rinses them out and fills them with tap water. He holds his breath a moment before drinking. Craig watches the display before downing his own cup of water, feeling warm down to his toes. He shivers with the sensation. The cup crumples in his hand and falls to the floor. His hands steady the camera.

Everyone else is a blur of color and motion around them. Craig's gaze rolls around them, but he cannot focus on anything but Tweek's face tilted up to him. Behind the camera, with the viewfinder up to his eye, and they're making eye contact through the glass, he smiles.

"I would have never pictured you as the party-going type," Craig admits.

Tweek chuckles, dragging a hand over his skull and looking around the room. "High school was a different time, man. I wouldn't have even thought about going to a party like this."

"Even with that shit-ton of friends you had?"

"On a Friday or Saturday night I'd rather be playing card games with Kevin and Leroy."

"No wild parties?"

"I hated high school."

The conversation takes such a turn that Craig does not say anything right away, instead replaying the last two sentences over, scouring for some sort of error or a word that he missed. He dumbly asks, "What?"

"I hated high school! Didn't you? All those expectations and everyone is unpredictable and reckless. I don't know how anyone deals with that stress and then there's puberty and teenagers are stupid. I was really bad at Literature. It's too subjective! How can you study something open-ended like that? It's like a vast universe of symbols and metaphors and interpretations. I read it one way, you read it another, and the teacher still fails us because he read it differently!"

Craig nods, his fingers grazing over the buttons and finding zoom. He absently narrows in on Tweek's face, making him fill the whole frame, overwhelmed by him and his presence. "I liked Literature because it's like movies."

"Nah, not for me," Tweek says, blinking his eyes quickly as he processes Craig's words and his own thoughts. "Math is safe. It looks scary but it all comes down to one answer. It's formulaic. There is no flexibility. It's stable."

"Well, I don't really like reading. Just like, the concept is cool."

Tweek eyes him harshly for a moment. It is not a mean expression, but Craig cannot interpret it. Judgemental, maybe.

"The school was a mess," Tweek says, changing topics. "Mr. Mackey and Principal Victoria are a destructive pair. They're so disorganized. They still run the school! I don't know how they got the promotion to high school, but whoever did it was out to fuck us up, man!"

Craig groans, "Fuck, Mr. Mackey. That guy had it out for me. It was like his nose had a direct line to my cigarettes. It'd be like six-thirty in the morning and I'd be smoking all the way over by the football field and he'd come waddling up to me and tell me 'drugs are bad, m'kay' and 'smoke will kill you, Craig.' What a fucking asshole. Mind your own business. Fuck."

"He once overheard me and Jimmy talking about beer-it was for a bit of his-and he ranted at us forever! It was unbearable! He was talking to the wrong people about the dangers of drinking. Meanwhile, every other kid is partying on the weekend except us."

"Principal Victoria gave me an hour-long lecture about tattoos after Clyde and Token drew all over my arms." Craig waves his free hand at his body. "Look at me now, Victoria."

Tweek chuckles awkwardly, and Craig is not sure if he zoomed in more or is Tweek is leaning in closer. It's strange to look at him from above when Craig so often has to film from his chest in order to achieve a normal angle, but with the camera to his eye, he can capture Tweek exactly as he sees him.

"It's stupid to hang on to this kind of anger. It was years ago."

"That's what therapy will tell you," Craig says nonchalantly. "But age will tell you the best thing to do is get revenge."

Tweek laughs. "That's not mature at all."

"But think about it," Craig says with an edge of excitement. "We could break it there and fuck shit up. Steal from Victoria and Mackey's desks, graffiti dicks in their offices, and knock shit over all around the school. Leave the water running in the bathrooms? Clog the toilets? Shave my undercut over a vat of pasta sauce?"

The splitting grin on Tweek's face is enough to ease the embarrassment of rambling for the sake of a laugh. He feels light, the drug floating leisurely through his system. It's a beautiful sight to see Tweek's sunken face illuminated with a smile.

"I'd love to see their faces."

"Then it's settled," Craig says cryptically. He watches Tweek turn and refill his cup. Craig is thirsty too, but he does not move to do the same, instead just capturing the blonde, whose muscles seemed to be mostly relaxed for once, akin to how he met him at the Thanksgiving party only a few days ago. He has a sort of elegant form-though Craig's tower perspective is skewed-Tweek is a good five foot eight and seemingly thin, a contrast to the thickness he carried around in high school, but it's difficult to tell under his layers of thick, wooly clothing. He gives the vibe of being snug in a bathrobe or about to rejoin his drum circle in the park. It's a strange, alluring look, no one Craig has ever known has looked like that, not even Wendy or Stan.

"What!" Tweek shouts, dropping his cup and snapping his neck to the side to look at Craig with huge, startling eyes.

"I didn't say anything."

"Oh, oh." Tweek runs a shaky hand over his head, his body tense again. "I, uh."

Tweek grabs Craig's arm, his grip tight. His eyes are on the colorful skin, but he does not seem to be seeing it, instead looking beyond. Craig remains silent, watching him. He can see Tweek's gaze drag slowly up toward Craig's torso, but his eyes are unfocused. Craig can practically see the clockwork in his head trying to jolt back from a kink in the machinery. He is used to the twitchy, tweeked out kid from his childhood, but this is different. Tweek's eyes blink back into focus. He runs a thumb over a large fish swimming upstream in the ocean of his left arm, leaving the dark depths of his inner elbow. He is not tracing it, just rubbing it. Craig wonders what the skin feels like. He knows what Tweek's feel like: warm and a little damp, the fingers squeezing his arm bony and sharp. Craig can see that Tweek has been biting his fingernails lately.

"Anglerfish are the scariest. They absorb their mates. They have like a million mates and they absorb them all."

Craig keeps his mouth shut.

"Those teeth, man."

Tweek's thumb bends so the dull tip of his fat thumb is gliding over the jaw.

"Why do you have a video camera in the ocean? And a tree?"

"It wasn't planned," Craig admits. The more he elaborates, the dumber it sounds. "I had all this stuff and then I wanted to fill the space. So I put in water."

Tweek rubs his thumb over the fish again, pressing down. Craig watches in fascination. He can feel his hand is trembling. Tweek's fingers are turning a yellow-white where the blood flows away to make room for the skin and bone to come closer together, and Craig wonders if Tweek is looking to see the same thing happen in Craig's inked skin. It won't.

"Terrifying," Tweek mumbles.

"What is?"

"Tattoos. You're just being stabbed a lot, and then it's like, dragged over your skin. There is ink in your pores. There is ink in your skin and it's always going to be there."

Craig's gut clenches. Tweek has his left arm, his right exposed from mid-bicep down under the sleeves of his borrowed black button-down shirt. Over the tight collar is his neck tattoo. This what he looks like, and it's exposed for Tweek's amber eyes to take in. It is not an unfamiliar situation, but it feels worse than it typically does.

Tweek smiles up at him with tight lips. "You're braver than I am."

Craig lets out one solid laugh, a heavy breath of amusement that takes his tension with it. Tweek turns around and looks at a group of sloppy kids taking shots, and he tugs Craig toward them before dropping his grip. Craig's arm tingles as he follows Tweek around the house, Tweek pointing out the things he should be filming, mostly passed out or making out teenagers. With the blonde shaved head and amber eyes as his guide, Craig feels like he's floating.

_15:02:41 Dec 3 2012_

"I always feel weird pulling up here in this bitch," Token complains, shifting the car into park.

"If you feel like your car is too nice, I have a business transaction you may be interested in," Craig suggests, unplugging Token's ipod from the auxiliary jack in the center console. "That, or I can just key it."

Token's expression is dark, admonishing, and sort of intrigued. Craig raises his eyebrows, letting Token know silently that he will happily beat up his brand new Audi for the sake of looking more like the middle part of upper middle class. His best friend seems to be considering it as they climb out of the heated car and into the biting cold of the neighboring Fairplay, Colorado.

Canyon Thrift is their favorite place to shop. Lacking morals, the for-profit company doesn't seem to screen their donations, or concern themselves too much with quality. The clothes are often unwashed and unusable, but as far as Canyon Thrift is concern, if they can sell it for a quarter, they're still turning a profit. That makes this location the favorite of a poor Craig Tucker and an insatiable Token Black, who gets hard at the thought of stepping into the pants another person may have perished in.

The drive was pleasant, and Craig felt occupied as they spent the time singing along to their traditional theme songs, and even now, Token is whistling the melody to Particle Man as they walk in the front door, but Craig starts to feel the uncomfortable itch of boredom in his skull. Token told him to leave the camera at his home, and without the Canon filling his right hand, Craig cannot stop himself from pulling out his phone and scrolling through Tumblr.

"You're so rude. Put your phone away. You're supposed to be hanging out with your best friend."

Craig groans audibly and shoves his phone back into his pocket, preparing himself for the onslaught of Token's opinions.

"Why do you do that, anyway?" Token continues, his critical eyes narrowed upwards at Craig's face. "Why do you always have to be staring at your phone. Do you have thousands of online lovers I don't know about?"

"No," Craig answers, pulling away from Token to start fingering through a rack of blazers. "I'm just restless."

"You're an alien. Not many people feel restless when they're resting."

"I don't consider shopping with you resting," Craig laughs, shaking his head at an oversized trench coat Token is making goo-goo eyes at. "Don't buy that. And I told you, I'm totally adopted."

"There's no fucking way you're adopted, dude. Look at yourself. You're the only person in South Park that's taller than your dad."

"Your hair is taller than my dad," Craig corrects him.

"Holy shit, you think so?" Token's face lights up hopefully, dragging Craig by the wrist to the nearest mirror where he forces them to stand side by side. They stand there for a few moments, trying to split their weight evenly between both feet and judge their heights. Craig Tucker: six four. Token Black: six foot. Token's 'fro: four and one quarter inches.

"It's over," Craig mourns playfully. "I'm no longer special."

"Oh, get over yourself," Token moans as he pulls away, returning to the racks to try on the trench coat Craig already detests. "You've never been special."

"I swear to the Blessed Virgin Mary if you buy that coat..."

"There's not a single defining characteristic about you, Craig. You've got average looks, an average personality, and an average story. You're like a foreign film with the subtitles off."

"I'm tall," Craig rebuttals, proving his point by grabbing a pair of jeans off the rack and holding them to his waist. The pants stop midcalf and Craig wiggles his foot around seductively beneath them.

"You are tall."

"But that's it," the friends say simultaneously.

Brief laughter dissolves into some serious thrifting. Craig is here because he needs a new winter coat. However, winter is the wrong word to use. In South Park, it snows seventy-five percent of the year and for the last two years, Craig has been living in a worn down hoodie that was once royal blue and a cracking black leather jacket, both of which were second hand when he bought them in the first place. It's time for something warmer, and maybe, something a little more attractive.

Clothes have a hard time fitting on Craig, and as he tries on leather jacket after leather jacket, the sleeves are either too short or the body too big. He thinks back to Tweek teasing him for wanting to be naked, but who can blame him? Clothes always feel like they're meant to be taken off. He tosses a fifth coat back on the rack, scanning the ominously long rows of clothing racks running through the store for where Token has vanished to. He sees the other man kneeling by a shoe rack, trying on a dingy pair of loafers.

"Any good finds?"

Token shrugs, standing up and rocking back and forth to test out the shoes. "Lots of shoes that'll look bomb with a little oil, but other than that, nothing heart stopping. What about you?"

"Not yet," Craig answers. "I guess I'm not sure what I'm looking for."

Token ties his fur lined boots together by the laces and throws them over his shoulder so he can strut about the store in the new pair of shoes. They move slowly together down an aisle, Craig dragging a heavy hand over clothes he isn't interested in, only stopping to rub fabric between his thumb and forefinger if he likes the color.

"Gary Harrison is playing at an open mic in North Park this weekend," Token begins. "I wanted to go, drink a beer in a broody bar, watch childhood friends spill their soul into a room of people that are hardly listening. It's not in South Park, but it'd be great for our movie. Something about how South Park kids have to leave town to grow. But I have class Friday morning."

"I'm going to that," Craig jumps in, feeling oddly excited at the ability to contribute to the conversation.

"Why?"

"I'm filming. Henrietta Biggle is playing too. Her friend asked me to film in exchange for free drinks for me and-" Craig cuts himself off.

"You and who?"

"Just me," Craig corrects.

"Pretty sweet deal," Token nods. "Are you going to edit it into anything?"

"In exchange for free drinks and zero cover? Fuck no, I'll send it raw."

"Not like you can edit anyway. You're a one trick pony."

"I can learn!" Craig defends, glaring at his friend. "Not my fault I didn't grow up with three computers and final cut pro."

"It's time you learn something new, anyway."

"So you'll teach me?"

"When we have time," Token nods. "When we finish this project we're currently working on I'll teach you how to edit."

"Cool," Craig whispers, pausing to study a letterman jacket from a high school he doesn't recognize.

"What exactly are you looking for?"

"What?"

"Clothes. What kind of clothes are you looking for today?" Token clarifies, studying Craig with those lowered brows and pursed lips that Craig always is skeptical of.

"A coat, maybe another hoodie. I'm not sure."

"Let me dress you."

Craig rolls his eyes, turning away from Token and flipping through another few jackets.

"Please," Token begs, moving between the rack of clothes and Craig so the other man is forced to look down at his friend. "I always ask nice and you never let me!"

Silence is Token's permission, and with a fist pump, Craig is led in front of a mirror, where Token forces him to stand as he wanders off again, looking for the right pieces. Craig is left to look at himself in the dingy surface. His trusty jacket and hoodie are lying at his feet, leaving him in just a plain white t-shirt. His eyes are drawn to the angler fish tucked inside his elbow. He swears he can feel the ghost of Tweek's thumb pressing into it, but his mind can drum up anything if he's anxious enough. Token already scolded him once for his phone, so with the device pocketed, he focuses on the exposed skin. The color has dulled over the three years since the fish was first ingrained in his flesh. Anglerfish absorb their mates. They're scary, Tweek told him. He never did learn why they have lights on their heads. His fingers itch to dig his phone from his pocket and google anglerfish.

"Close your eyes."

Craig obliges, holding his arms out to his side and letting Token slide a jacket over his outstretched arms. When he opens his eyes, he is both horrified and fascinated by the Craig Tucker that stands before him. Token always finds the most ridiculous items from what always seems to be an average thrift store selection, but now as he Craig stands here in a ratty faux fur jacket, he seems to get why Token always dresses so ostentatiously. He doesn't speak as Token undresses and re-dresses him like a barbie doll. He is draped in a mauve raincoat, a kelly green pullover, and a colorful poncho. Token studies each piece carefully before replacing it with something else. The experience is similar to when Tweek was looking at his tattoos, but it does not feel the same. Token is the master in this situation, and Craig is appeasing him solely out of long-established love. He closes his eyes whenever instructed to do so, and won't open his eyes until Token gives him permission. He feels Token's hands pull at the fabric on his body, occasionally rubbing across his shoulders or down his sides to check fit. Craig thinks of Tweek while Token reaches up and around his neck to refold the collar on a hideous yellow sports coat and feels a ghost of the euphoric high they shared a few nights before. He opens his eyes and makes eye contact with the man standing in front of him. They study each other in silence for just a moment before Token announces, "okay, you're done." Token must have tried twenty separate things on his breathing mannequin, but now he only has four selections draped over his arms. Fur coat. White blazer. Silver windbreaker. Burgundy cardigan. It's a more or less normal selection. Satisfied, Token grabs his selections and walks smugly towards the register.

"Not all of those really fit," Craig calls out weakly, tugging his familiar hoodie back on.

"That's what a tailor is for, boo-boo."

"I can't afford a tailor," Craig scoffs, watching himself in the mirror for just a moment longer before turning to follow his friend.

"I can!" Token calls out across the store. "Consider it a gift!"

In addition to Craig's new pieces, Token bought himself the trench coat, three pairs of floral spandex pants, and the camel loafers. They drop their purchases off in the car, and without having to speak, they turn together towards the sidewalk and start walking along the same path they always take after a round of Canyon Thrifting.

Fairplay is only a little larger South Park, but has a few businesses that South Park doesn't have, like a FedEx and a Home Depot, so the town is frequented by South Park residents. It was on one of these errands that Craig discovered their destination for the first time. Ever since he showed it to Token, they've made a point to stop by anytime they were in the neighboring town.

It's a short walk a block South and a cut through a dirt lot to find the abandoned building. It appears to have once been a preschool, or an old church, but now it's empty and a little dilapidated, which isn't an unfamiliar sight in Park County, but the remarkable thing is the graffiti on the side of the structure.

The men stop and stare up at it, Craig lighting a cigarette before offering one to Token, who, like always, politely refuses. Thousands of little fish, painted in a spectrum of grey, blues and purples, school across the side of the building. Craig has never seen the ocean, and has only been to the Denver Aquarium once in his life, but these little fish are like old friends, having appeared all over Park County for the past several years. Most get painted over or buffed out within a few days, but this one expansive art piece has always remained. He thinks about the anglerfish on his arm, and wonders if these little fish are friends or foe or food.

They're swimming West, East, and West again, the fish in the back of the school several turns behind, but the fish at the front, swimming with a fast determination off the side of the wall. There is no background, no ocean behind the painted water-breathers. It is almost as if they don't belong on the building, just swimming through Fairplay on their way to another destination or at least trying to swim through, and maybe, they've been stopped by something. Craig wonders how many years they'll spend here before the city will paint over them and allow them to swim on.

They sit on a rusted out seesaw, both sharing the elevated side of the equipment now that it won't teeter. At one point, Token inhales as if he is about to speak, but their silence persists. There is a gentle breeze today and as it begins to snow again, the flurries whip up and around, bouncing off of the wall before them. When Craig finishes his cigarette, he stands and approaches the wall. He smothers the embers against the mouth of a minnow.

When he turns back to his friend, Token is watching him with a curious expression. Token's brown eyes see everything through the cheap plastic of his fake glasses, but Craig has nothing to show. He immediately lowers his head and pulls out his phone as he walks passed him back toward the car, checking to make sure his text count is still at zero. They head back to the Audi waiting patiently at Canyon Thrift with their new purchases in the trunk.

They climb back in the car, and Craig plugs in Token's ipod as his best friend pulls out of the lot. He changes the album to Flood, and it only takes half of a verse of Token's smooth voice singing along with Birdhouse in Your Soul before Craig mumbles along in his terrible attempt at singing. It's a comfortable environment, in Token's car Craig does not mind singing and letting loose.

Token goes to drop Craig off at his house, but Craig refuses to get out of the car, instead waving Token back to his mansion on Sierra Madre. At the house, Craig enjoys a meal of grilled cheese with ham and onions. Sometimes his dad makes grilled cheese, but he only melts cheddar cheese onto bread. Token's parents add the extras. Craig is never too humble to stick around the Black household during mealtime. Without the assistance of his camera to use as an excuse not to participate, Craig plays a couple rounds of Street Fighter with his best friend.

_17:02:41 Dec 9 2012_

His phone has been buzzing with text messages for the last half hour, but Token has been pointedly ignoring it. Marcus wants to have some friends over, and wants to know when Token will be vacating the premises. He managed to catch up with his work for his obnoxious upper level core classes, which for all their good intentions that Token appreciates as broadening his scope of knowledge, are weighing him down when he has his film project to work on. With all of his immediate homework done and tucked away in his brown leather satchel, Token can finally sit down with his laptop and notepad to watch the footage Craig sent him early this morning.

Token would watch all of Craig's life, save for the sleeping, if he had the time, but he cannot live Craig's life alongside his own, so he skims slowly through Craig's midday nap and him watching a movie Token does not recognize. He is careful to make sure he does not miss any details, but he knows some small things get lost as he uses the fast forward button. It's a sacrifice he has to make.

Film review and editing is one of the few settings in which Token will remove his glasses. They are folded neatly on the desk beside him as his naked eyes scan the screen. He clicks his pen against his jaw as Craig brings him downstairs to retrieve a bag of store-brand animal crackers that look vile coated in a slick pink icing. Craig does not seem to be off-put by the sugar, popping one after another into his mouth when he resumes his movie and washes it down with a cup of generic Mountain Dew that has been sitting on his bedside table all night.

The sky outside Craig's bedroom grows darker, and he flicks on a lamp when his movie is over and he seems to realize he has been sitting in the dark for an unknown period of time. He walks over to his guinea pigs and sits on the floor in front of them. He opens a hatch and pulls out one, Lenora, Token thinks, but he can't stand to be in the proximity of the same room as them without his allergies flaring up, so he really can't be sure which pet he is looking at. Craig cups her in his hands and coos to her, petting her angled head. He lets her climb up his torso even though he is shirtless, and does not move when he nuzzles her head along the slightly overgrown shaved base of his skull.

It is strange to see Craig showing affection. Even though he has always known this side of Craig has existed around his pets, it looks surreal in comparison to Craig's fascination with Tweek. Token knows there is a gentle side to Craig, he can hear it in the way that Craig actually talks to Tweek. Token has not heard him talk to anyone in years for more than a few necessary or snarky words except himself, Clyde, and their parents. With Tweek, Craig asks questions, provides commentary, and Token could swear he even hears him smiling behind the camera occasionally. He both proud of and horrified by the progress.

The lock on the door turns and Token looks up to see Marcus and a mutual friend of theirs, Shawna, both dressed up. They both look at him skeptically. "Dude, I thought you'd be out or whatever since you didn't respond. Did you get my texts?"

Token holds up his phone to show them the wall of text message he received.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

Marcus's lips are shut tight, and Shawn rolls his eyes at him. "I have a bottle of rum and I want to pregame with Lea before her birthday, and it's fine if you're not going out with us tonight, just make sure you text her, but the hermit I live with won't leave my room, so you and Marcus are the only option."

"And?" Token asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Aubrey and Lea are best friends."

Token frowns at the mention of his ex-girlfriend. Shawna and Marcus both have cautionary expressions on their faces, and they are watching Token carefully to read his thoughts. He keeps his mouth tight and glances back at his computer screen. "What time?"

"In like an hour."

Token shuts his laptop and stuffs it in his bag with his water bottle. He tugs on a coat and gives his friends a half-wave goodbye as he heads off to the library. Luckily, he does not run into Lea as he is exiting the dorm building, she is almost always standing outside smoking around a few planters.

There are a series of desks near the window on the second floor of Norlin that he prefers. It's a quiet area with a view, and although it's already nine in the evening, the library is on finals hours and will be open until a glorious 2 AM. Unfortunately, finals means that the place is flooded. Miraculously, he watches two women crushed together at a desk in his favorite area pack up and walk away, claiming that they're starving. Token quickly adopts the space, situating himself comfortably there. Token secures his headphones over his ears and hits play.

Craig put away the guinea pig and is now standing in front of his closet, staring at the array of clothes before him. He told Craig he had to wear one of the new piece he bought and had tailored for him, and Craig decides on the white blazer. Token is both impressed and a little horrified when Craig matches it to a black wife beater, black skinny jeans, and his black slip-ons. He cannot be sure if Craig is being lazy, or if he has taken Token's bizarre fashion sense to heart, but he likes the result. Craig leaves his chullo hat on his dresser and instead stands in front of his mirror carding his fingers through his hair, making the mass of it full and lively. He picks up the camera and turns it off. Token opens the next video to find Craig walking out of his bedroom, presumably with a brand new battery in his camera.

Token watches as Craig cracks the window, lights a cigarette, and and turns up the radio as he drives. It's a wonder that Craig listens to the radio at all since for as long as Token has known him, Craig barely likes music. There are a few bands he enjoys, and he and Token can agree on They Might Be Giants, but Craig complains about nearly every song he hears. He thinks everything is too slow, too fast, bad lyrics, sappy lyrics, too much bass, too many vocals, and so on. Craig does not even seem the like the few bands he listens to on his own, but Token acknowledges that they aren't great either. Craig seems to only listen to music that has some sort of noise quality to it. He can't describe it, but it's messy, irritating, and arguably not very good at all. Craig tends to only like the first album of the bands he says he does not hate.

This is why it is strange for Token to see Craig walk into a bar in North Park advertising an Open Mic Night.

There is already someone on stage, a woman a few years older than them singing a piano cover of an overplayed pop song that Token knows Craig would not recognize. He barely seems to hear the music at all as he weaves through the people standing around and whispering to each other with beers in their hands. It's dim, and Token is having a difficult time seeing the surroundings in detail, but he does recognize Firkle Vargas sitting at the bar before Craig even approaches him.

"Craig! You came!" His white teeth glint against his caramel skin. He is lacking the glitter that usually gleams on his skin. He looks casual and older in a loose black sweater and tight pants. He waves a hand with a black X on it toward the stage. "I have a table reserved near the stage for you to set up. Henri's gonna be on the piano, and I've angled it so you can get a look full body shot of her from the table, but please feel free to walk around and get other angles as well. Now, I saw your date around here somewhere."

Craig does not respond as Firkle looks around the room. "Ah!" He waves a hand enthusiastically and soon enough, Tweek is approaching them, looking lost in a thick cardigan. He is an alien with his shaved head and thin body, but Craig does not seem to mind. Token can practically feel Craig relaxing when Tweek is beside him. Firkle spins in his stool and flags down the bartender, who approaches immediately. Firkle tells the woman that Craig and Tweek get free drinks for the evening, and she takes their orders. Craig gets a beer and Tweek mutters the name of a hard mixed drink.

Firkle is grinning at the men standing around him. He almost looks more devious outside of his party boy goth look and stripped down to a casual goth nearly adapted into society. "You ever film something like this, Hollywood?"

Token hears only the noise of the bar full of strangers chatting in response.

"I have total faith in you."

The bartender brings the men their drinks and Craig immediately takes off, Tweek in tow. They end up at the table Firkle had reserved for them. Craig takes a seat and angles the camera around to find a good way to film and using the current pianist as a body double. The shot pans over Tweek, who is sitting proper with his glass in both hands.

"You don't say much, man," Tweek says, barely audible over the loud music.

"Hmm?" The camera aims at the pianist once more, and Craig stands up to gain a new perspective.

"To Firkle. To everyone. You don't talk."

"I talk to you, don't I?"

Tweek twitches and looks down at his drink. He tosses back a quick gulp, his body practically vibrating while the liquid passes over his tongue and down his throat. "That's what I'm saying."

The camera lowers as Craig is in the middle of moving it around. It does not seem intentional. Clapping arises and Craig is excused from saying anything. A high school aged boy takes the stage with an accordion. He starts with a name, a few rambling words, and the sound of the accordion fills the room. It's unapologetically loud, and it drowns out the words Craig does not want to say.

He walks away from the table and to the other side of the short stage. It is barely two feet off the floor. He imagines someone sitting at the grand piano as he holds the camera close to look through the viewfinder, searching for the right angle, the right lighting. The kid onstage is stomping along with the music, but Craig hardly notices. He crouches down, aiming up. He stands up tall. He side steps left and right. It's clear to Token that this is a very new type of project, and although Token already knows this, he wonders if Firkle or Tweek can see it, too. The musician transitions from one song to another, and Craig wanders center stage, looking up at the boy before turning back to the lonely piano.

"How is it going?" Firkle's voice comes from behind the camera. Craig does not respond. "Don't worry, I have total faith in you, and I don't have faith in much. You should take that as a compliment, Hollywood."

Firkle is cheeky, smug, and acts much older than a high schooler. He's short, but his presence is large. Token can tell that the ever-stoic Craig is affected, even if only slightly. After all, Firkle is kind of giving him his first film job.

The boy leaves the stage and Craig walks alone back to the table that Tweek is waiting at, periodically swallowing mouthfuls of alcohol. Craig barely pays him any mind as a thick young woman walks on stage, a long black dress flowing behind her, and takes a seat at the piano. She shifts to find comfort, adjusts the microphone to her deep crimson lips, and begins to play.

Henrietta has a rich, dark voice that she compliments with the way she plays her fingers over the keys. Her eyes stay lidded with the occasional sultry glance out toward her audience. She is terrifyingly talented, and it takes Token aback. He has heard her before, but that was years ago. They were still in high school. Craig films her with reverence. He keeps the camera steady, moving from the full body view to showing her face from the front. The shaved side of her head faces the audience and a huge flower headband situated on the fuzzy side of her skull matches her lipstick. She is an art piece that Craig captures beautifully. He focuses on her face, and then on her hands when he moves behind her once more. Aside from it being a single camera, the film looks fantastic. Token is impressed by his best friend.

Token wishes he could see Craig and Tweek's face as they listen to the music. The lyrics are heavy. It sounds as though there is a love story sunken below the surface of vivid imagery and impeccable piano playing. Henrietta does not have to sing loud, her voice carries. Token can only describe the song as dark piano pop. It's mature, it's beautiful, and the room is much quieter for her than it was for the last two performers.

"Gentle princess, calm the reflex. Be our witness and float along the wind. Marry me after the gilded chapters, lost in silence, quiets our sin. Churches toppling all the steeples, buildings, pyramids, all the people, all the people..."

There is a story there, terrible and true. Token does not know much about her except that she skipped town immediately after high school to roadie for a band she wasn't too keen on. Rumor had it she stayed in the town the band ended in for a while before crawling back home. She generally avoids parties unlike her three friends, so what Token has heard of her story has all been pieced together by people he cannot trust completely. Listening to her play inspires him. He wonders what he can glean from watching her.

She leans back, her fingers playing on their own accord as she makes eye contact with the camera for a brief moment before scanning the crowd. A few last words ringing with a deep vibrato finish off the song and leave a reverent dead space before the clapping begins. She does not try to play a second song like the previous kid did, she just states her name into the microphone, thanks the crowd, and leaves.

Craig walks back to where he left Tweek, who is only a quarter of the way through his drink. Craig takes a seat and sets the camera down to face them as he finally attacks his beer. He swallows a few mouthfuls and looks up at the stage with a bored expression.

"She was really good," Tweek says.

"I think it came out alright."

"So that's all you had to do?"

"Yep."

Tweek fidgets with the lip of his glass, scraping his uneven thumb nail over the rounded edge. There is music playing and Craig is staring in its direction, but does not seem to be listening. He drinks a little more as he deafly watches. Tweek looks over his shoulder every few moments.

Craig sighs and stands up, taking the camera with him and approaching the goths where they are standing along a wall by the bar. Pete and Michael regard him warily, but Firkle lights up when he sees him. "How was it?"

"Fine. Good."

"Great!" Firkle cheers and claps him on the bicep. He pauses and looks him up and down. "You look sharp as fuck. Don't be afraid to order more drinks. It's on me."

Firkle turns to grab Henrietta from her conversation with Stan and Gary, who she is shaking hands with. "Goddamn it, Firkle," She swears at him, but he waves it off.

"Craig thinks the footage came out well."

Henrietta gives Craig a wary once-over. "Thanks, Tucker."

"Yeah."

"A match made in hell," Firkle laughs.

Stan smirks appreciatively. He does not bother to make eye contact with Craig. Stan is one of the few people who easily accepts that Craig does not want anything to do with anyone who is not Token or Clyde. Gary and Stan stand tall, broad, and athletic. They look too casual and normal to be at an open mic surrounded by young adults with new shapes and cuts in their clothes.

Firkle pulls a sharpie from Henrietta's backpack and grabs Craig's free hand. Token desperately wishes he could see the look on Craig's face as Firkle turns his hand over and writes his e-mail address on the light blue waves on the inside of his wrist. His wicked smile glints up at Craig. "E-mail me when you get it uploaded."

Craig tugs his arm away, but Firkle holds fast. "Take advantage of my payment."

"You haven't even seen the finished product yet," Michael drawls from above. "It may be shit not even worth scraping off my platforms."

"Platforms! Like you need to be taller. You too!" He accuses Craig. Firkle squeezes Craig's wrist and releases him. "I trust Hollywood, here. Have you seen his work humiliating Pete's classmates? It's brilliant."

"Is that what we're calling art these days?" Pete mumbles.

Craig leaves when the opportunity arises and he drops into his seat at the table. Token is a little surprised that Tweek is still there. He has gone through most of his drink already and Craig's neglected beer sits patiently beside it. Craig does not seem to worry about leaving his alcohol semi-unattended, and he snatches it back and swallows a mouthful.

"So just a beer, huh?" Tweek asks, his voice wavering and uncertain.

"Yep."

"I guess you're driving."

"I am."

They sit in silence for a bit as the performer on stage changes and a middle-aged man with a harmonica steps up to the microphone. The melodic screeching fills the room and Tweek twitches, sinking into himself in an attempt to hide from the sound. Craig watches him and says nothing.

Tweek makes several glances over his shoulder at the room behind him. The crowd is ever-changing. There are not many people, but there is a substantial amount, enough to make white noise out of mindless chatter and enough to make Tweek Tweak nervous. Token would have assumed that the blonde would have artificially mellowed out by his early twenties, at least around people he knows. But for all Token is aware, the Tweek he is seeing may be the mellowed version of what could be. It can be hard to tell with him.

Craig's eyes take slow paths to wherever they go. He travels from the stage to his drink to Tweek to the atmosphere around them. He takes everything in. He does not like to skip details, especially when he is in a new setting, which is rare for a man who hardly ever leaves South Park.

Craig looks at Tweek. Token cannot read the expression on his face. After all the years of knowing him, Token still has a difficult time reading Craig when he is closed off. Token is so often treated to the somewhat carefree Tucker boy now that he only sees him in isolation and not with other friends like he did in high school, that the careful way Craig has trained his emotions to stay in check is unfamiliar to Token. In person, he may be able to see a certain twinge in his expression that would hint what he is feeling, but it does not translate through dim light of the bar.

Token knows that Craig is interested in Tweek. That much has been apparent since the footage of the Thanksgiving party. He thought he was wielding a wild theory until Kyle watched over his shoulder and confirmed that Token suspected about his best friend. Token has been aware of Craig's sexuality for three years and suspicious for even more. Craig has never said a word, but Token can see it. Craig's own silence damns any secrecy he thinks he bears. Watching Craig be not just attached to but interested in someone is amazing. Token has been guarded lust in his friend's eyes, but never interest. Craig watches Tweek with intrigue that goes beyond physical.

Token can understand what draws Craig to him. There is something mysterious about him despite the barely contained way he lives. He is strange, and Token knows it is the sudden baldness revealing the gaunt face always hidden by shaggy hair that reeled Craig in. He does not always understand Craig, and he knows Craig is disconnected from his own sexuality enough that Token may never fully grasp what captivates his best friend, but he knows Tweek is doing it.

The twitchy blonde is twisting his neck to look over his shoulder when a tall body in a forest green velvet dress appears beside him and Tweek jumps, screaming and quickly slapping his hands over his mouth. Marjorine bends down into the line of view of the camera and puts a hand on his arm. "Oh, Tweek, I'm so sorry!"

Craig adjusts the camera so it can see her when she straightens up. She's tall with a short dress and long blonde hair. Her face is scrunched up in an apology. "I'm sorry, fellas. I didn't mean to spook you."

Tweek nervously laughs it off, dragging a hand down his chin and neck. Craig leans his chin on his hand.

"W-what are you doing here?" Tweek asks as he glances around the room. "It's too early to be out of school, right? Are Wendy and Nichole here?"

"No, just me! I have all essays for finals, so I'm done early! Well, I still have one more paper to turn in, but I'm almost done and I don't have to e-mail it until Monday night." She looks at Craig when she says, "And Clyde won't be home until practically the night of his party. Well, darn, Craig, I love that outfit. You looks fantastic. Tweek, doesn't he look fantastic?"

The man on stage finishes to a loud round of applause. Tweek sags in the chair.

"Is that-?" Marjorine asks, turning her attention to the stage. A teenage girl with a ukulele takes stage and Marjorine deflates, looking back to Craig and Tweek. Her phone is clutched sideways in her big hands.

"How is everyone?" Tweek asks.

Craig shifts in his seat. He looks uncomfortable. Tweek told Craig he had a lot of friends, and Craig is faced with one of them. He is trying to look casual as he watches Tweek and Marjorine chat. Tweek is smiling with her. Craig has an expression on his face that Token could take for jealousy.

"How is New York?"

"Perfect, as always," she chirps. "I started a new job this semester. You know I was working at Shake Shack, but it was too much. The pay wasn't terrible, but after a while the lines running out the door just isn't worth $9.02 an hour and I thought, hey, I know a little about fashion or at least Nichole has taught me enough to make myself look presentable-really turned my life around-so I applied to a few clothes store and now I work at Zara!"

Tweek's jaw twitches with uncertainty about what to say. He looks confused.

"Sorry, I forget where I am sometimes! It's a nice store. Middle-end fashion. That's where my whole ensemble came from!"

She brushes her long hair behind her shoulders and drops her hands to her sides. Token is finally able to admire her outfit. The green dress is topped with a white peter pan collar and her long angled legs are clad in black nylon. Token nods in appreciation, forgetting he is sitting in a crowded library during finals.

"It's a great job, I love it."

"Congratulations," Tweek tells her and she beams.

"How is South Park treating you fellas?"

Craig looks to the other man. It is not an expectant glance like he wants him to answer for him and spare him the conversation, but it is assuming. Craig assumes that he does not have to say anything and that the conversation, while including a plural address, is only aiming singularly at the blonde man.

"F-fine," Tweek responds, glancing around the room as he speaks and not holding eye contact for longer than a second or two. "Just working."

"You'll be back in school next semester?"

Tweek nods.

"Good, I want to be one of your models! Your professor will absolutely die when she sees my body!"

Craig's eyes narrow and his forehead wrinkles. Token mentally digs back through conversations he has witnessed between them. Craig looks suspicious.

"What are you fellas doing in a bar like this?" Marjorine asks pleasantly, changing the subject before Tweek is able to respond.

"Craig filmed Henrietta. B-Firkle asked her to so we got free cover. And drinks."

"Both of you?" She looks between them.

"Uh, just Craig filmed. I'm here for... I'm here."

"Huh," Marjorine smiled. "It just so happens I'm here to film Gary's first open mic for Wendy and Nichole, who were sore they couldn't come because of school and stuff, but I only have my phone, which is not the top of the line by any means," She says, waving around a Blackberry. "What could I offer you to use your services?"

Craig stares at Tweek for a moment before he realizes Marjorine is talking to him. Craig Tucker is the cockiest motherfucker to never assume anyone is talking to him. He blinks up at her, keeping his expression neutral.

She smiles patiently. "Will you film Gary for me? I have a twenty in my purse."

"Okay."

The answer was both surprising and expected. Token hums aloud in the library, impressed by Craig's shift in personality. Maybe it is the man sitting perpendicular him at the small table, maybe it's because he just did it for someone else and he may as well continue the work, or maybe it is the promise of money, but Craig does not seem an bothered as he usually does when showed affection, as Marjorine gives him a quick hug. "Thank you!"

She pulls away and starts typing on her phone, eyes glued to the screen as she says aloud, "This is great, let me tell Nichole and Wends that they won't have to worry about my phone's terrible quality. They will actually be able to see and hear Gary. Wendy is the most worried about missing it. She's been telling him to go to an open mic for years and he finally does it when she's stuck in New York."

Tweek is nodding as though he is very interested in what she is saying. Craig is looking at her, finally paying attention now that he has been drawn into the conversation through film. She makes eye contact with him and opens her mouth, but is interrupted by clapping. They turn to the stage to see the girl walking off and being replaced by the blonde god with perfectly pink Mormon skin.

Marjorine taps Craig on the shoulder and he picks up his camera, standing and walking up to meet Gary where the blonde takes a seat down center stage with his guitar in his lap. He adjusts the microphone as Craig finds the right angle.

"I'm Gary Harrison and this is  _Gold_."

Token has heard Gary play the guitar on several occasions. They're friends, most through Nichole, who often has Wendy around, who often has Gary around. Gary is not always eager to play for his friends, but Wendy is a passable guitarist and Nichole loves to sing, so Token often bares witness to the golden trifecta of Wendy, Nichole, and Gary. Gary is the stand out self-sustaining musician because he is the most passionate. Gary could do something big with his music simply because he wants to.

The music that starts is similar to what Token usually hears. Patterned strumming lulls the audience and when Gary opens his mouth, the attention is drawn to him. His smooth voice sings the type of indie tune Token would listen to on repeat for hours while editing.

The bar around them must still be filled with the white noise of chatter, but Token is too focused on the music to hear anything else.

Unlike Henrietta's performance, Craig stays in one place. The camera stays dead, just one shot of him from his knees up. He is well framed in the camera and not too far above Craig, the short stage keeping a tall Gary not too far out of an even taller Craig's range. Gary spends most of the performance with a faraway expression on his face. He is an actor when he plays, his deepest emotions bleeding through his lips and eyes. Token wishes he could see the audience. He wants to knows if anyone is on the other end of that gaze.

"If a door be closed, than a row of homes start building. Tear your curtains down for sunlight is like gold."

The song picks up. A hollowing emptiness fills the room to make it apparent to Token that the song could use an accompanying musician or two. It sounds sorrowful with only Gary but the effect is not unpleasant. Token watches him strum, and wonders if he should turn his camera on Gary a little more often.

When the song ends, Token leans back in his seat. Craig does not stay a moment longer before walking back to Tweek and Marjorine, who has taken Craig's vacated seat. Marjorine coos up at him, thanking him in her overly polite way that tends to make Craig cringe. He lets her touch him to slip a twenty in his pocket. She stands up and hugs him again.

"I'll message you on Facebook for the video," She says, seemingly unaware that Craig's Facebook is a hollow shell. "Thanks again!"

She hugs Tweek, the contact lingering for a beat longer than casual before heading over to Gary, who is being approached by Henrietta. When the camera turns back to Tweek, he is staring after Marjorine with a strange expression.

"What was that?" Craig asks.

"Gah! What!" Tweek jumps.

"Marjorine. The hug and the staring."

"Oh, uh, it's nothing." Tweek presses his lips together and bumps the lip of his glass to them. He sets the drink back down and swirls it around. The ice is mostly melted. "We used to hook up. Butters!" He runs a hand over his head. "Me and Butters used to hook up in high school. You know, before everything."

Token can be frustrated seeing the world only through Craig's eyes, but this is the most infuriating piece of information he is being denied. He wants to see Craig's face so badly he grips the edge of the desk and groans aloud, unaware of the irritated glances sent his way. Whether the man puts down the camera to watch both he and Tweek or whether Token sees Tweek through Craig's eyes is a fifty-fifty chance. It was like Craig knew.

"So just Butters?"

"What! What do you mean?"

Craig says nothing.

Tweek drags his hands down the sides of his face. His eyes flick to the camera several times. "Butters. Not Marjorine. Butters. Uh also a guy in North Park. Baahir. I don't know if you know him. You probably don't. I don't know why you would, just uh, Butters and Baahir."

Token knew this. Not in that detail, of course, but he knew Tweek was interested in men. He did not have any proof and his point of reference was shady since Craig is the only gay youth in South Park he is aware of other than Firkle and Heidi, and Firkle is too young and promiscuous and Heidi is a woman. He has his suspicions of a few people, but those were passing moments. This is concrete. This is Tweek admitting he has hooked up with men, whatever that means. He can only imagine the rush of emotions Craig is feeling and he thinks he can feel them, too.

In Craig's silence, Tweek's panic rises. "I don't mean to scare you away or anything! You asked, man! I wouldn't have said anything, but you asked!"

"It's fine," Craig says, surprising them both. "It's not a big deal."

"Oh. Thanks." Tweek's eyes keep looking into the camera. He is exposing himself.

"I'm going to get another drink," Craig says after the swallows the last mouthful of his beer. "You want?"

Tweek swallows and looks down at his drink, which is mostly empty save for an inch of watered down liquid. "Yeah. 'Beer after liquor makes you sicker, liquor after beer and you're in the clear.' Another of this."

Craig is silent for a moment before he lets out a chuckle. "You have it backwards."

"No! That's the only way it rhymes!" He shouts and then mouths the rhyme to himself again to make sure.

"'Beer then liquor makes you sicker.' You want the hard stuff first because the beer is easier. You down the heavy stuff and ease yourself through the rest. Do you get it?"

Tweek opens his mouth but immediately shuts it and nods even though he clearly doesn't get it. Token can see the purple pink flush of intoxication and embarrassment fanning out from around his long nose before Craig turns away and heads to the bar.

Firkle is sitting there illegally, and he waggles his eyebrows when he sees Craig but does not acknowledge him as he seems to be in the middle of a conquest. A boy who performed earlier is the dubious victim of flirtation. Craig orders two Coronas and takes both of them by the neck in one hand back to the table without paying.

He is intercepted by Marjorine on the walk back. "Thank you again! You're the best!" She looks like she wants to hug him again, but the beers and camera are in the way. She gives him an extra big smile and walks away, wishing him a great night. Craig does not walk right away. Token knows he is watching Marjorine leave and playing over what Tweek told him. They used to hook up before Marjorine found herself.

Craig does not set anything down when he arrives at the table and asks, "What do you mean by 'hook up?'"

"What!"

"Hook up. What do you mean?"

Tweek grips his shirt in one hand. "I, uh, mean hook up. You know. Oh man. We used to like, make out."

"Make out," Craig repeats.

"Yeah, well, with Butters. I'd make out with Butters."

"What about the other guy?"

"That is personal!" Tweek is irritated now, his forehead wrinkled with rising offense.

"Making out with Butters clearly wasn't."

"Dude, if you're, like, uncomfortable, I can leave!" Tweek shouts, starting to stand up. "It's cool, I get it!"

"No," Craig says and Tweek drops back down. "I'm not."

"Oh. Okay. Good. That's good because Baahir was not just making out."

Token can practically feel Craig cringe.

Tweek groans and buries his face in his hands. "I knew this would happen."

"It's not a big deal."

"Says the guy doing the asking."

Craig sets the drinks down and slides into his seat across from Tweek. He arranges the camera so that it is on the table facing both of them. Token sighs with the relief of finally seeing his best friend's face. The heavy stuff is over, and he suspects Craig will avoid going back into any scary topics now that his face is being shown, but Token can only harp on the past so much. What is done is done. He can only hope that he can glean something interesting from Craig's expression.

Craig does not look an uncomfortable as Token thinks someone would feel in his position. Craig, a man extremely uncomfortable with his own sexuality, was told the man he is currently attracted to is at least somewhat gay. He look unimpressed, but Token should not have expected anything more.

"I would have, you know, with Marjorine," Tweek offers, looking a little drunk. "But she was trying to work through some stuff. I didn't want to bother her! I kinda liked Annie and I guess I thought maybe that would be something? It wasn't."

Craig nods, his eyes wide but harsh, like he is trying to get a grip on his anger or jealousy. Token cannot read him as well as he would like.

"So I like girls, too," Tweek says boldly. "Can we walk around or something? I'm feeling closed in."

Craig picks up the camera and Token is deprived of his reactions once more. Tweek takes them over to the bar where they stand and chat absently about their surrounding while people push them as they walk by. They move to the side of the stage where the performers trot back and forth. They move over to where Marjorine is talking to Stan and Gary. She tries to draw them into the conversation and Gary seems pleased about it, but Stan looks unhappy, as he always is. Token always gets a kick out of his anger. He knows it's wrong, but he cannot help the living display of art that is an irritated Stan holding onto a very alcoholic drink.

Tweek walks away from them after a few minutes in favor of going outside. Craig follows silently. Token would consider it passive if it was anyone but Craig. They abandon their drinks rudely on an empty table before leaving the bar.

Tweek sighs when he is immersed in the cold air. The street lights and the lights advertising the bar light him up in fluorescent whites and pinks. The drunk blush on his cheeks fades into the neons. Token imagines that Craig cannot stop staring. Tweek is a strange creature. He rubs his hands together and then over his neck in a lame attempt to warm up. He pulls a big tan fleece-lined jacket over his sweater and wraps his arms around himself rather than messily button it. It's a wonder he still buys clothes with buttons.

Craig rustles the camera around for a few moments before letting it hang from the strap around his neck while he lights a cigarette. Before long, he is holding the camera with one hand and smoking with the other. Tweek eyes him warily. "That will kill you."

"So I hear," Craig mumbles around the cigarette before inhaling. He twists his neck to exhale away from Tweek.

"No, really, it will! Haven't you ever seen those Truth commercials?"

"Rumor has it those things are a bunch of shit. They're fake." Craig takes a long drag and his stiff body sags when he exhales.

"Are you drunk?"

Craig lets out a dry chuckle. "No. Are you?"

"Maybe a little bit."

"Do you need a ride?"

"No, my dad will pick me up. Oh," Tweek says, turning his sheepish expression to the collar of his coat. "That's embarrassing."

"No, it's not. It's whatever."

Tweek hesitates before making eye contact with Craig. He regards him with a blank reservation that looks bizarre on his normally open face. All of Tweek's feelings are usually worn on his face. He has no secrets. He could barely keep one if he had it. Token watches his face carefully in a way that he is sure Craig would do if Tweek wouldn't look back. "I don't understand you."

Craig hums. "That sounds about right."

The computer screen goes black and Token jumps. He run his hands over the laptop to check for an obvious sign of damage and groans when he realizes he forgot his charger in the room. He looks at the clock on his phone. Everyone should be gone from his room, but he is not eager to take any chances. He shuts his laptop and leans back in the chair with a notepad in his lap, replaying the scene in his head and scribbling down points of interest.


	4. Chapter 4

_06:42:41 Dec 9 2012_

"Boy. Hey, boy."

Craig blinks away a foggy dream of green to see the light piercing into his dark room through the open doorway. The huge, unmistakable black silhouette of his father blocks the painful hallway lights. "What?" He grumbles, sitting up because he hates when his family sees him lying down.

"Did you lock the car last night?"

Craig closes his groggy eyes and rubs his tongue along the roof of his mouth. It feels fuzzy from the alcohol. It's a weird feeling, one that does not happen often because he usually only falls asleep with after kicking back one beer, or he passes out for a day and a half after six shots with Token, where the fuzziness of his mouth is submissive to the pounding his head. He feels sticky from the night before, but functional, so it's not a bad feeling. Craig notes that he could get used to going out to bars with Tweek more often.

"Did you hear me?"

"God, dad, what?"

"Did you lock the car last night?"

Craig throws his legs over the side of the bed. "Yes."

"Your radio's been stolen. Maybe this is the kick in the ass you need to take as much care of the car as you do that damn camcorder."

His dad walks away but leaves the door open. Craig groans, he'll have to get up and close it. He looks down at his phone charging on his desk as he walks to the door. The time reads six forty-three. He has to be at work at seven.

"Fuck," he whispers, adrenaline washing over him and waking him up. In an instant, he is stumbling around his room searching for his work pants, digging through piles of clothes that have been on the floor for so long Craig can't remember if it's a "dirty" pile or a "clean" pile. He settles on the black skinny jeans he wore the night before. Technically, employees have to wear slacks to PetSteps, but at the absence of his slacks, at least jeans in the right color aren't the worst he could do. There are a few PetSteps polos hanging on a hook on his door, and Craig yanks one on before shoving sockless feet into a pair of vans and grabbing his black leather jacket from where it's laying on top of Gideon and Lenora's cage.

The Canon in his grip, Craig jogs downstairs. His mother and sister are still asleep and won't be heading to church for another two hours, but his father is awake at the table, drinking a cup of coffee and glaring at Craig disapprovingly as he enters the kitchen. His father stands, and Craig stops to face him. The two towering men stare at each other in silence for several minutes. Craig cannot help but wonder when in his life Thomas Tucker became so depressed, but the melancholy is easily recognizable on his face. Briefly, it seems that time stands still, but the glowing green numbers on the microwave light warn Craig that it is now 6:48 am, and he turns to leave.

"Craig."

Craig holds his middle finger up behind his back as he pushes open the door and steps out into the morning bite.

He lights a cigarette and smokes as he stares down at his car. Not only was his radio stolen, but whoever broke into his car used a jimmy to do so, and his driver's side window is open several inches. He reaches through the window to open his car from the inside and is greeted with a half inch of snow coating his seat, center console, and steering wheel.

"Fuck this shit, man."

He carefully places the Canon in the passenger seat after making sure that side is dry, and then makes a half-hearted attempt to brush some of the snow off his seat. His hand causes most of the thin layer to melt and to avoid exploding on the blameless half inch of snow, Craig throws his head back and stares up at the sky. He takes a few more drags on his cigarette before pulling off his leather jacket and using it to cover his seat.

Craig shuts the door, and after taking a sad glance at the wires that are hanging from the hole where his stereo had been, he shoves his key into the ignition. Power coursing through the car brings two new discoveries: the first being that whoever jimmied the window open used enough strength to jam it in the door, and no amount of cranking seems to help align the glass back on its belt. Secondly, the exposed wires seems to still being attempting some sort of connection, and the speakers in Craig's car are hissing static as loudly as they can. Without a radio, he is without volume control. His car is now a cold and noisy hell.

PetSteps is an eleven minute drive from the Tuckers' residence. It is a horrific event, but the pain of being jacketless in sixteen degrees with forty mile per hour winds whipping his bare skin is nothing to the pain he feels without the distraction of the radio. Nothing about the drive makes Craig want to drive off the side of a mountain more than being stuck alone with his own thoughts for eleven entire minutes.

He has never been more relieved to pull into the PetSteps lot. The heat of the building is so comforting as it wraps him up, that he is able to ignore Kyle Broflovski and his hands on his hips.

"You're twelve minutes late."

Craig purses his lips together and nods, keeping his eyes shut as he leans back against the doors. The store doesn't open for another two hours, and he is grateful he doesn't have to deal with any customers yet.

"You look like shit."

He opens his eyes to study his boss. He can't imagine he looks too well, especially compared to Kyle, who looks professional, put together, and satisfied this morning. Craig runs a hand through his hair, and he catches of whiff of sweat and booze from the night before.

"Why are you late?"

Craig rolls his eyes, walking past Kyle and towards the break room. His high school classmate follows him, waiting for an answer while Craig clocks in and locks the Canon in his locker.

"Someone broke into my car last night. Stole my radio and broke my window, so I had a pretty fucking cold drive here. Can you try resisting being such a manager for twenty minutes?"

Kyle studies Craig for a moment, head tilted back, looking down his arched nose at him.

"Just check the task list after you've cleaned up."

The other man turns on his heels and leaves the breakroom.

Craig takes his time in the bathroom. He washes his face with soapless water and drinks a couple mouthfuls of water from his cupped hands. There is a bottle of dog perfume in the restroom and he uses it to try to hide the smell of the bar from his jeans. He leans back against the door and lets himself slide down to the floor, pulling his phone out of his pocket and scrolling to the last page where a rarely used Facebook application waits. There is a two in a red circle on the top right hand corner, and he presses it uncertainly. The first message is from Marjorine, thanking him again for what he did for her and Gary and "Wends" and Nichole, and asking when she can get the video from Craig. He does not respond, immediately scrolling to the message from Tweek.

"Hey, a guy I know is throwing a party tomorrow night. Any interest in going?"

Craig's heart thumps once against his ribcage, and he sits up and clears his throat as if someone were witness to the involuntary reaction. Craig studies the thumbnail photo beside Tweek's name. It is not him, but a photo of a painting of a mountain range.

"On a Monday?" Craig responds.

He does not expect an answer right away, but one appears anyway while he is he occupied staring at Tweek Tweak's bolded blue name.

"There's always parties if you know where to look."

"Where is it? My car got fucked last night, I can't drive it very far."

"Denver. I'll borrow my mom's car. You can bring your camera."

"It's a film about South Park."

"Cool. Pick you up at 8?"

"See you then."

Craig waits several minutes, but the green dot that indicated Tweek was online vanishes, and he quickly closes Facebook and opens the most recent text he has in his messages from Clyde.

"We need to skype soon," Craig texts him.

It's only a few seconds before his best friend responds.

"You're up early! We can talk but not today because I need to study and tomorrow I have a final. You good for Tuesday night?"

"Yup."

"Cool! We'll talk then. Anything important?"

Craig puts his phone away without answering.

The task list of pre-opening responsibilities is pretty obviously divided into things requiring money or expensive product handling being directed to Kyle and everything that happens to belong on a top shelf belonging to Craig. He groans, and heads to the back of the store to clean the top row of fish tanks.

_9:16:51 Dec 10 2012_

"Gah! Just be quiet!"

Craig sighs and slumps into his seat, lowering his pointed finger now that Tweek is driving past yet another potential parallel parking space. Their hour long drive was mostly pleasant, even though few words were exchanged. Tweek knew where he was going, so Craig didn't even have to navigate the GPS directions. They mostly sat and watched the road.

But now, they're circling Tweek's friend's house for the fourth time and Tweek is having what Craig can best describe as a meltdown. Some spots are too close, others too far, all too small and triggering Tweek to writhe in his seat and yelp every few seconds.

"I can park the car for you," Craig attempts to offer.

"No! Are you crazy? This is my mom's car. What will I do if you dent it? Gah! Shit, what will I do if I dent it?"

Craig rubs his hand over his forehead, digging his phone out of his pocket and reading some junk mail that's been ignored in his inbox. He does not plan of following through with the offers and suggestions from the companies spamming him, but they are worth the read, just in case. Beside him, Tweek is occasionally shouting to himself, and Craig misses the moment when the shouting turns into a nervous excitement. He looks up just in time to see Tweek barely shift into a long parking space, stopping dead probably three inches from the truck in front of him. Tweek grips the parking brake.

"Don't stop here," Craig says. "Reverse a little. That guy'll back into you."

"What? Fuck!" Tweek squeezes the steering wheel and the brake, not moving.

"Just switch to reverse and ease your foot off the pedal."

"Shit, shit, shit," Tweek groans and lifts his foot just slightly. "How much?"

"I don't- Brake!"

Tweek shouts and slams his foot on the brake, jerking the car. Craig puts his hand over Tweek's and puts the car in park. He lets go immediately and stares at him. "Okay?"

The blonde's wide eyes are staring straight ahead. His body is stiff. Craig wonders how Tweek is ever allowed behind the wheel of a car, and if he even has a licence. The drive was overall fine, but meltdowns like that are life-threatening. He decides against commenting on it, lest he send the other guy into another panic.

Against his every desire to do what he wants, Craig remains in his seat. He looks back down at his phone and waits for Tweek to compose himself. Before too long, Tweek turns off the car and unbuckles his seatbelt. Craig follows him when he opens the door and they stand on the sidewalk. Again, he waits while Tweek looks around to see where he's going. Craig walks with his face in his phone, letting Tweek take care of things. It isn't worth the conversation.

They come up to an apartment building with twenty-somethings standing around on the small front lawn and chatting. Tweek checks his phone. "This is it."

Craig follows him through the door and up a few flights of stairs. The more young adults they pass, the more apparent it becomes to Craig that this is off-campus housing for a college. There is a door on the fourth floor that is wide open with kids coming and going that Tweek warily approaches. Craig does not ask, just watches as Tweek frets over whether they are in the right place, but then he sees someone he knows and walks in.

They stop next to a couch that has a few couples lying on top of each other. Craig watches a couple make out heatedly while Tweek glances around and closes in on himself. It's a spacious apartment for a college student, even if it is for a group of them. It's crowded and the lights are dim. Craig adjusts the lighting on his camera so he can see in the dark. As he looks through the viewfinder, he finds he is not receiving the usual stares. This is a new group of people, but he seems to be blending in. He lowers the camera and looks around. A few people are sparing a lingering glance on his neck tattoo or maybe his stretched lobes, and there are three freshman girls giggling in his direction with open lust, but no one is looks judgemental or awed. Craig glares around the room. There are a few people dancing together. The music is not too loud, probably because they have neighbors though it seems as if everyone on their floor is in attendance. He lets his camera fall to his side; there is nothing of interest to film here, and he certainly doesn't want any college kids thinking he works for MTV. Tweek feels tense beside him, and Craig pulls out his phone when the man he is watching makes eye contact with him.

"Tweek Tweak!"

Craig looks up when a short Puerto Rican guy walks up and gives Tweek a one-armed hug. He pats his chest. "How are you?"

"Good, good, fine," Tweek responds, relaxing a little.

"I heard you were home! Jess told me you were coming and I didn't believe it!"

Tweek smiles and it takes Craig off guard. It's a nervous but genuine smile. The young man finally notices Craig and nods. "Hey, man. I'm Ian."

Craig does not react so the man turns back to Tweek. "Good catch. I'll let Jess knows you're here when I see her. There is Grey Goose in the kitchen and weed in Jess' room. I think her name is on the door."

Ian disappears and Craig turns his shoulders just slightly toward Tweek. "Want something to drink?"

"Ah, no!"

Craig frowns. "Weed?"

"No! Not yet."

"Okay."

Craig looks around. He picks up the camera and scans the room. There is nothing of great interest save the few people making out. It's not his usual thing, but he is feeling on edge tonight.

Surrounding him are adults with alcohol in hand, none of them shouting or screaming, but casually moving around the room and talking. They laugh together and at each other, and they help their sloppy friends. There are a few people dancing together, but it is not overly raunchy, never going farther than light grinding. Craig has been to many parties, but he feels out of his element. This is so much more mature than the screaming masses of oversexualized teenagers he pushes through to find solitude in the back room. Craig is at a college party and he wants more. He feels for the first time as though he may have missed something by staying home. It's a terrifying feeling and he quickly pulls out his phone and opens Reddit.

Beside him, Tweek is nearly shrunken into himself as he looks wildly around the room. He looks lost.

The internet isn't telling Craig anything interesting and he sighs and slides his phone back into his pocket. Tweek yelps in response to the sound of disdain coming from Craig's throat and he turns to the shorter man, looking down at him and cringing internally when the other shifts away from him.

"I need a drink," Craig announces to himself, walking towards the kitchen.

Tweek follows, looking at the array of beverages skeptically while Craig decides on mixing himself a drink with every hard liquor available. A few glugs of sweet and sour and a few glugs of sprite over the ice in the cup leaves Craig with a neon blue AMF to clutch in his inked hands. He takes a large mouthful as he studies his date who seems to be flinching at nothing in particular.

"I need... I, uh, gah! I'll be right back."

Tweek is gone in an instant, and Craig leans back against the wall to nurse the red solo cup. He's noticeably irritated. He's not sure when the night went from decent to shit, but all Craig knows is that Tweek's jumpiness is making him feel on edge as well. He's thankful to have a few minutes away from him as he pulls the alcohol into his body as quickly as his queasy stomach will allow.

The idea of going out to a foreign party together sounded like a good idea earlier in the day, and it even still sounded okay when they were in the first half on the drive, but as the reality of hanging out alone with Tweek sets in, Craig cannot imagine what made him believe that they would have fun. Back in high school, he would have rather broken a bone than hang out alone with someone like Tweek.

People move in and out of the kitchen, filling or refilling cups and entirely ignoring the tall tattooed man leaning on the wall with a professional grade camera. It's a foreign feeling to Craig, and the invisibility is liberating. Here, he blends in. Here, Craig is another college kid with an artistic streak and the world lying open before him. In the eyes of the others, he is not yet a fuck up. Craig is swallowing quickly, filling himself with alcohol and confidence.

Before long, his cup is empty and when he moves back to the spread of alcohol to refill it, he finds that he is not sober enough to recreate such a complicated drink. He fills half of his cup with coke and the other half with rum, hoping to make the cup of poison last the rest of the night. If he's drunk, he can do a night with Tweek. It might even be fun.

"Hey."

Craig turns around through the warm fuzz that is the early awareness of intoxication to find Tweek standing behind him. Craig's eyes fall to the light blonde's buzzed skull and then down past his amber eyes to the apologetic smile pinned to his lips. He looks good.

"I'm sorry for... that shit. Earlier."

"It's okay," Craig tells him. And it is. Everything is okay. They're far from South Park, in a building where no one seems to give a shit and Craig takes a step closer to the man in the oversized clothing. A toothy smile opens across Tweek's face and Craig sighs, his body relaxing with the help of the alcohol. He feels warm, and Craig shifts out of his cardigan and drapes it over a nearby chair.

"Want to walk around?"

Craig nods.

They push past a group of girls entering the kitchen and Tweek leads the way up an additional staircase to what looks to be a student lounge. Various chairs and couches are scattered around, somewhat grouped near tables that are hidden beneath cups of alcohol and card games. Everyone is laughing or smiling, no one looks displeased, no one looks like they're trying to be something they are not. The young adults here are attractive to Craig- not in a sexual way, but in a wistful way. He wishes his peers in South Park dressed like this: skinny ties, asymmetrical haircuts, colored denim. His eyes shift over to Tweek, who looks good in his clothes, but clearly wasn't trying. Olive green khakis hang low on his hips and a misshapen brown flannel is open to reveal a dark grey t-shirt. Suddenly, he understands why he and Token stand out so much in their hometown. Amongst the typical red-neck mountain town tendency to throw on anything capable of covering their skin, Craig and Token look like outsiders.

"I would move to Denver," Craig muses.

"Me too. Well, I'd really move anywhere out of South Park."

"Preach."

Both men laugh, and it's a relieving feeling. He feels open, for once. Craig takes a sip of his coke and rum and puts a hand on Tweek's shoulder to steady himself. Amber eyes slither up his arm and towards his face, and Craig watches the other man over the rim of his plastic cup.

"What are you thinking about?"

"That these kids here in Denver are perfect."

"They're not perfect," Tweek laughs. "Look."

Craig lifts his camera to focus on each subject as Tweek takes him on one of his journeys of gossip and personal information. He learns of Sarah, the manic depressive cocaine addict and Paisley, a girl who (accidentally) killed her identical twin and pretended to be her for more than a year. Tweek tells Craig a story about Tunny, who just like Bebe, lost his leg in the military and came home an entirely different person than the one who left. Nancy is bulimic, George is autistic, Freya is a freak.

"How do you know all of this shit?" Craig laughs in disbelief. "Where did you meet all of these people?"

Tweek shrugs. "School."

Craig takes a step away from Tweek so he can turn the camera on him and Tweek glares through the lens at the filmmaker.

"Do you have to?"

"I find you fascinating."

Tweek smirks but turns away from him, bashful and red in the face. It's overwhelming and catches Craig in a moment of awe. He walks away, and Craig hesitates for just a moment to film the other man moving away from him before he lowers the camera and stumbles after him in an attempt to keep up.

They move into a hallway where nearly every door is propped open. Each room seems to be housing something, whether it's a round of Super Smash Brothers or a game of spin the bottle. The occasional person waves at Tweek, and Craig takes a sip of his drink when a vague fear of being spoken to rises to the surface. Tweek seems to sense his discomfort, and calms his nerves with a simple hand on Craig's forearm. The strong skunk-like smell of marijuana stops Craig in his tracks and he peers inside the crowded room.

"Hey, did you want to smoke?"

"No, I'm fine. Do you?"

"No. I'm drunk. You're not even drinking."

"I'm fine," Tweek assures him, hooking his arm through Craig's and pulling him further down the hallway.

No one cares, that's the amazing part. No one reacts to them as they walk arm in arm. Craig can only imagine the shrieks and gasps and gossip he'd be forced to endure if he and Tweek decided to walk into a South Park party like this, but college must be different. College must provide tolerance he has never experienced. Maybe it's just the anonymity of a big town. Craig has been going to school with the same forty kids since he was three. He has been around the same crowd for eighteen years of his life regardless of how hard he has tried to push them away. Maybe he could use a city.

They continue to travel down the hallway as it turns ninety degrees. A couple vanishes into a bedroom and pulls the door shut behind them. Another door opens to reveal the boom of a sound system. Craig and Tweek pause. The small apartment is crowded with party-goers. The lights are off, but a strobe is on. There's a man with a laptop and a disc player in the back, blonde, greasy hair falling over his eyes as he leans over his computer and adjusts the volume. Bodies are shifting and swaying together with the music. The room smells inviting with the hot breeze of sweat and alcohol that is rolling out into the hall. Tweek's hand slides up to Craig's bicep and tightens ever so slightly.

"Wanna dance?"

Craig doesn't answer, but does find himself smiling and stepping into the room. The door shuts behind them, someone mumbling about sound laws, and the room is cloaked in darkness. With every pulse of the strobe, Craig catches glances of dancers caught in still frames, arms above their heads, hands on lovers, mouths open as they sing along with the music. It's a scene he feels that Token cannot miss, and Craig finds a spot on a bookshelf to prop the Canon. Half a second after the camera has been settled and Craig takes a step back, Tweek's arms are snaking up around his neck. His hand presses firmly on the back of Craig's neck, pulling him into his grip. Craig looks down at Tweek's face, catching his changing expression in each flash of light. He takes a long drink of his coke and rum, watching the thin man start to smile up at him as Craig's free hand falls to Tweek's hip.

The tune is fun and dance-worthy, even to Craig's clumsy body. He usually dislikes pop music, but he is enjoying the beat that sways them. His body feels light. His heavy boots are on the ground, but his body is floating. Tweek is keeping him in place, stopping him from leaving earth. He sighs, the last of the tension in his body escaping.

He can only see Tweek's face in flashes. Wide features are washed out and eyes yellow in the brilliant light. Craig has danced at parties three times in his life and only one was with another person, a North Park girl in high school he didn't much care for and didn't even know the name of. It didn't mean anything and grinding barely felt like anything except a rough force of pleasure that left him uncomfortable. Dancing with Tweek doesn't feel meaningful, but it's arousing. Tweek's hands crawl up the back of his neck, just reaching the back of his skull, scratching at his undercut. Tweek is considerably shorter than Craig, but the weight of his hands seem determined to pull Craig's face down to his level. He turns his head to the side and breathes out anxiety.

The song changes, the beat heavier, and Craig does not know if he is ready for that yet. He swallows a mouthful of his drink, and then another, and then another, until he is mourning the dry bottom of his cup. As Tweek presses a hard pelvis into Craig's thigh, he lets the cup fall to the floor. They rock together, Craig's hands nervously looking for a place to lay on Tweek's thin body.

The strobe helps Craig commit, knowing that if he looks foolish, no one will be able to see it. He's able to move with Tweek's body, letting the alcohol assist the motion of his limbs. Craig doesn't really know how to dance, but coke and rum certainly does. Tweek doesn't seem to mind, and as a new song begins, they stay dancing hard, bodies grinding against each other. Tweek's forehead falls to Craig's chest, his hands sliding from his neck down to his biceps.

The song ends and another begins; a few girls near him cheer and begin singing along. He recognizes the song from the radio. He doesn't know who it's by and he cannot recite the lyrics, but the familiarity of the song makes him feel like part of a generation. He feels like he fits in with the rest of the youth in the room, and he glances around at the still frames of his peers surrounding him. A smirk pulls at the corners of Craig's mouth and as his head swirls around in the vertigo of hard liquor, he wraps his arms around Tweek and pulls his body into his own.

"I could show you love. In a tidal wave of mystery, you'll still be standing next to me. You could be my luck. Even if we're six feet under ground, I know that we'll be safe and sound."

Craig has never been pressed up against another man before, and while horrifying, it is also exhilarating. He knows what he's feeling beneath Tweek's zipper. He notices the hitch in his dance partner's breathing pattern. He does feel safe, his face framed by two hands, his body being worshipped by every part of Tweek that is rubbing up against it. He lifts his hands from Tweek's back and brings them to his skull, letting his hands skate over the short buzz on Tweek's head where shaggy blonde hair once was. Amber eyes and red lips turn up towards Craig, giving him a look that terrifies him. Tweek stands up on his toes and brings his mouth to Craig's ear.

"You're going to hate me."

The words don't register. All Craig hears is hot breath breath against his neck. His knees weaken; his stomach flips.

"What?" he has to ask, pressing his own mouth against Tweek's ear. He pulls back, letting Tweek pull him back into his mouth so he can shout through the music into his ear once more.

"You're going to hate me, but we have to leave at ten-forty five. I have a midnight curfew."

Craig almost asks him to repeat before the words sink in. The warmth sinks from his body and he pulls back, looking down at Tweek's flushed face. The uncertainty and reservation are small portions of his wild expression. Craig gapes at the dilated pupils and parted lips, and he has to turn away. His hands feel empty without the glass to fill it, even as they hover over the soft tickle of Tweek's buzzed hair. Tweek's arms fall from his shoulders.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine," Craig grumbles.

The lights feel too severe, flashing hard off of Tweek's light skin. Craig's arms drop down to delve into his pant pockets and remain there, itching for the cigarette he cannot light indoors. Tweek is suddenly a few feet back, his exaggerated facial features comical and cartoonish in the bursts of white light. Open eyes, long beaked nose, and wide mouth stare back at him, studying him the best they can. Craig is rooted to the floor, letting himself be analyzed even though he wants to grab his camera and run.

Tweek grabs his naked forearm, trying to drag him closer. "Craig, shit, what's wrong?"

Craig yanks his arm out of his grip and glares down at him. He knows it's a pathetic expression and that he is too drunk to look intimidating or standoffish but he keeps his frustration obvious and unexplained. Tweek takes a step back.

"Let's go to Denny's." Tweek's mouth curves in the smallest half-smile. "I need coffee if I'm gonna drive."

Craig says nothing, but grabs his camera and walks out of the apartment. The echo of music from the room deafens him to the sound of Tweek following, but he does not turn around to check. He wants to get back to the car. He hates Denny's, but at least it's cheap. They are almost to the stairs when he hears someone shouting Tweek's name, and he turns around to see Tweek be stopped by a chubby young woman touching his arm. It's weird to see Tweek be interrupted and not look startled. He knows her.

"There you are! Ian told me he saw you and I couldn't believe it!" She embraces him. "Are you leaving already? It must have taken you forever to get here!"

"Midnight curfew."

"Ouch!" She laughs empathetically. "Well, come back some time during the day so we can actually hang out, yeah? Find a day you're not at the store and you can see my apartment when it isn't full of drunk kids."

She waves in the direction of the first door they entered. She looks back at Tweek and fake frowns before hugging him once more. "Have a good night!"

"Have fun," Tweek tells her before releasing her from their shared embrace. She takes off on high red heels and Tweek looks at Craig.

"Friend of yours?"

"Yeah, Jess. She's the one who invited me."

Craig pushes the fire door to the staircase and walks down, Tweek somewhere behind him. Their footsteps echo through the metal and concrete stairwell. He can hear the bass of music played to hopeful college kids without a future and not much else. They are alone. The hardness in Craig's jeans has subsided from a pressing need to an uncomfortable nuisance. Five minutes ago, he and Tweek could have snuck off to the stairwell to make out. Five minutes ago, they had their hands all over each other. The thought makes his skin crawl.

Cold air is healing for all of one breath before Craig lights a cigarette. The sucks the heat into his lungs as the walk to the car. Tweek walks a nearly certain path toward where they parked.

"Are you mad?" Tweek asks over his shoulder and Craig initially does not realize he was being spoken to.

"No."

"Are you okay?"

Craig drops the remaining half of his cigarette to the ground and doesn't bother to step on it. Craig is surprised that Tweek does not keep pressing, but his head is floating on vast waters, and he does not want to deal with any conversation that may loop back to when they were dancing.

Tweek finds the car easily enough. Craig looks warily at Tweek. "Do you know where we're going?"

"Yeah, it's not too far."

Craig's eyes linger on his shallow profile before turning to his phone. He scrolls through Reddit, opening the occasional image post but never looking at the corresponding comments. They arrive at Denny's within only a few minutes, and the host lets them choose where to sit. Unremarkably, they choose the nearest booth.

The bench below them is peeling, and the rips are covered by duct tape sharpied over in a color somewhat close to the forest green of the fake leather material. There are granules of sugar or salt spread over the far end of the table where the bus boy could not reach. Craig looks around the room to see mostly people their age and a few families. Something about Denny's feels uncomfortable to him. He can deal with lazy staff and poor maintenance, because he hates customers himself and doesn't think they should mind when a fixture isn't pristine, but the place feels stale and the air smells like Windex. He thinks it should at least smell like food.

Craig sets the camera down on the table to face both of them. Tweek opens the menu and scans it quickly. It doesn't look like he's reading, just glancing down the pages at the categories of options. He flips through to the back and sets the menu down. Craig debates asking him something kind of rude about his attentiveness before the waitress appears to take their order.

Tweek only orders black coffee.

Craig stares at him a moment then glances down at his shut menu. His eyes rolls back up to the expectant waitress and he mutters, "Same."

He doesn't like coffee. On the few occasions he has drank it, he prefers it with as much cream and sugar as possible to mask the coffee taste, but he ordered it plain. Craig eyes the packets of sugar on the table, wondering how many will make up for the absence of the small ceramic pot of creamer the waitress would have put on the table had he asked for it. He winces at his own stupidity and wonders why this is even a debate.

With a belly full of booze, he looks at Tweek and says, "I don't like coffee."

The blonde laughs. "Why did you order it?"

"I don't know. You were getting it. I didn't look at my menu."

Tweek narrows his eyes a little, watching him closely, a smile stuck to his thin lips. He glances at the camera before sliding his menu to the edge of the table. Craig looks back down at the menu, hoping to see something he might want to eat. He drank a good deal and he's just about coherent enough to pass as sober though he certainly does not feel that way. Thankfully, he does not have to drive, and Tweek seems capable enough to get them back to South Park. Craig looks out the huge window beside him at the somewhat busy street. Denver looks nothing like South Park. If there are mountains in the distance, the nighttime hides them, just like in his hometown.

"I haven't been here since I was like nine," He tells Tweek as he squints beyond the traffic lights, inked fingers picking at a cut in the menu's binding. "My parents took Savannah and I to the Denver Art Museum and a Broncos game. I think they wanted the art for Savannah and the football for me, but we reversed that on them. They're good people, though. They were freaked out for a little while before they just accepted that my sister likes sports and I like art, or whatever."

"Wow. You like art?" Tweeks asks.

Craig frowns and tears his eyes from the outside world. "I guess? I don't know anything about it. I just like looking at it."

"You never told me," Tweek says as a hand slides across the table and rests an inch from the top edge of the menu, Craig watching silently.

"Nothing to tell."

The coffee comes and Craig spews a request for creamer. The waitress casts a lingering look at his coffee cup in hand and it takes until she walked away from Craig to realize she was looking at his tattoos. He feels out of control when he is drunk, which is an awful feeling. He steadies his clumsy hands enough to pour the creamer, filling the mug up to the rim. He is forced to take a few hot sips before he rips open sugar packet after sugar packet under Tweek's watchful gaze.

"I feel like you're upset. Did you have a good time tonight?"

"Sure."

At this point, Craig can't even tell if he's lying or not. He's not sure he had a good time, but it could have been worse. He stares at Tweek, who is uncharacteristically still as he gazes back. He plays back scenes from the party, eyes shifting over to the Canon that records them now and recorded them then. He wonders what it'll look like through the eyes of an audience: Craig and Tweek, hands skating over each other's bodies, hips moving with the beat of the DJ's carefully selected songs. A twinge of arousal sneaks back into Craig's stomach, flushing his face and causing him to let out a sudden breath.

"Yes," he amends his previous answer. "I did."

Tweek seems to slump in his side of the booth, probably from relief. Craig is sure his callousness only causes the paranoid deep unrest. Tweek cups his coffee mug in both hands and Craig attempts to mimic him, but has to set the cup down due to the scalding temperature of the ceramic. He watches his date take a long, deep sip of the bitter drink without flinching once at the taste or heat.

"So, yeah," Craig begins. "Denver's cool."

Through a partly suppressed smile, Tweek responds, "Yeah, but shit, if I ever get out of South Park, I'm going further than Colorado."

"Good point."

"Where would you go?"

The question is heavy, and Craig has to take a sip of his sickeningly sweet brew before answering.

"What is the furthest place in the world from South Park, Colorado?"

"Smack dab in the middle of the Indian Ocean."

Craig's eyes widen at Tweek's quick answer.

"Why do you know that?"

"Because I'm restless," Tweek grins.

"I'm not much of a swimmer. What are the closest countries?"

"Madagascar and Australia."

"No."

"Peru is pretty far from Colorado."

Craig shoots Tweek a poisonous glance, causing the other man's eyes to widen as he apologizes under his breath. Craig shakes his head, but smiles in a way that let's Tweek know the joke is forgiven.

"So in the United States, where would you want to go?" Tweek continues.

Craig scrunches his nose. This feels an awful lot like his junior year of high school, when teachers started pressuring students to choose the universities they'd be applying to. He reminds himself there is no pressure in this conversation, no talk of careers or futures. He closes his eyes for a moment, causing himself to slip back into the hazy buzz of his intoxication as he ponders the question.

"Austin?" Tweek asks.

"God, no."

"New York."

"No way."

"Los Angeles."

"Nope."

"I thought you wanted to be a filmmaker!"

"Not in LA, I don't."

"Salt Lake."

Both men laugh, pausing to take a sips of their coffee. Craig can feel the caffeine working to override the alcohol. He pushes the half-full mug to the edge of the table in an attempt to ignore it.

"What about you?" Craig asks. "Las Vegas?"

"Shit, I'd die there."

"Reno?"

"Fuck! No more Nevada!"

"D.C."

"Too many cops."

"Atlanta."

"Too far South."

"Ann Arbor."

"I'm not moving anywhere as cold as South Park."

"Chicago?"

Tweek hesitates, raising his eyebrows and frowning as he considers the possibilities.

"What do you know about Chicago?" he asks Craig.

"It's windy. There's some decent film festivals. That's pretty much it."

"I could do Chicago," Tweek muses.

Tweek got another coffee to go, but he seems too focused on the difficult drive to take a sip of it, so it sits untouched in the cupholder, where the occasional bounce in the road causes the brown liquid to slosh out of the lid. Craig knows one sip would keep the cup from overflowing, but he's not sure he can stomach the taste now that sobriety is tangible.

"I hate driving in the mountains," Tweek grinds out. "It totally freaks me out. Like what if we got in a wreck? No one would even fucking know."

"The other car would."

"What if I swerve and hit a tree?"

"Then pay attention to the fucking road?"

Tweek huffs out a laugh. He turns up the low murmur of the staticy mountain radio to a listenable volume. Craig leans back and looks out the windshield. They are on a long stretch of mountain road, one lane running either direction and desolate nature surrounding them that Craig can barely see with only the high beams the guide them on a quiet Saturday night. He doesn't like the song on the radio until Tweek starts singing along.

He looks over at him, at the long profile of the blonde beside him, head tilted just slightly to the right as he sings. Craig does not know the song, but it's just the sort of indie pop Token would make him listen to. Technically, Tweek has a terrible voice. It's scratchy and as he mimics the pattern in the music, his voice nearly cracks on every high note, but it's sweet. Craig wishes he knew the song.

Tweek turns his head and they make eye contact. Tweek smiles and Craig laughs. A warmth floods his tight stomach, different from heat he felt earlier in the night. His hands squeeze his phone. "Look at the road!" He barks, but he's smiling.

Tweek jumps back into position, but Craig cannot take his eyes off of him.

"I drive better when I can concentrate on music," Tweek tells him. "It sounds stupid."

Craig does not respond, but his smile stays in place as Tweek sings again. He looks down at his phone and opens his messages, scrolling to Clyde and typing, "I like someone." He hits send before he can question his own judgement.

Tweek sings them the rest of the way home. He pops in a CD from a band Craig doesn't know, and even though he does not like the music at all, he is content just to listen to Tweek.

Craig directs him when they reach his neighborhood. All of the houses in South Park look the same at night, and when Craig was a kid riding his bike he would lose his own house. Craig is pointing wildly as Tweek nearly passes his house. "There! The tan one!"

Tweek pulls over on a harsh angle and slams his brakes as he hits the Tucker's garbage cans. A chorus of dogs bark from around the neighborhood and Craig frowns. "Dude."

"Sorry, sorry!" Tweek yelps and climbs out of the car. He pulls the trash can out from under his car and sets it upright. He looks wild in the headlights even without the messy crown of hair he used to have. Craig is still staring when Tweek returns. "Are you okay, man? You're looking at me weird."

Craig takes his camera off the dashboard and steps out of the car. They look at each other over the roof. "You can get home? You're looking shaky."

"I'm fine," Tweek laughs. "Just a little buzzed. Coffee."

Craig nods and walks away, listening to Tweek drive off behind him.

He opens the front door and is hit by the heavy smell of popcorn. His family is still awake and sitting together on the couch watching a movie. Craig frowns as they all turn and look at him over their shoulders, each of their faces reading minor curiosity and major irritation. He waves a lazy hand and walks passed them and up the stairs to his bedroom.

There are texts flooding his phone from Clyde. Most of it is incoherent babble in all caps and a bunch of questions he isn't in the mood to answer. After he brushes his teeth and strips, he lays in bed with his phone, scrolling through the texts. He sends no response, but sets his phone on the nightstand next to his charging camera and falls asleep.

_15:02:41 Dec 11 2012_

Ugly music sounding from the laptop on his desk alerts Craig that Clyde is Skyping him. He pauses Skyrim and climbs out of bed and into his desk chair. He runs a hair through his hair before accepting the call. Within moments, he can see Clyde, handsome as always even through the pixelation.

Clyde has the good looks every college jock should have, and the man is busy on the East coast between school and hockey. All the hard work is aging him nicely. Craig frowns when he sees him, which is the exact opposite of the reaction Clyde has. Clyde's big head is split in an even bigger smile.

"Craig Tucker, you beautiful beast!"

"Hey."

Against the solid cream colored backdrop of his college dorm wall, Clyde laughs, "I haven't seen the new one yet, show it to me, dude!"

Craig sighs and yanks on the neck of his worn tank top to reveal the healing grey moth spread over his chest. Clyde's big, dumb mouth drops open.

"That is awesome. How do you come up with this shit? I've been thinking about getting a tattoo."

Craig glares at him. "Really?"

"Yeah!" He pushes the arm of his short sleeved shirt up over his shoulder and slaps his solid bicep. "Right here. I've been seeing some cool ones on some people I know and I like them. Not that I don't love yours," he says when he sees the look on Craig's face, "but your tattoos are so perfect that they seem fake. Like they're art. You're art. I can't imitate art!"

"So what are you going to get?"

"Some guys on the team have these like black bars or like black barbed wire on their arms. I like that."

"No."

Clyde frowns. "What?"

"No tribal tattoos. Never. I forbid you from ever getting a tribal tattoo."

"What! Why? They look so cool!"

"They're not cool. You are exactly the kind of guy to get sucked into that shit. Trust my judgement on this one." Craig leans forward in his desk chair and minimizes Clyde while he opens his browser. "There are much better bro tattoos you can get that are not fucking tribals. Here," he says as he sends a few links to Clyde. "Koi fish, skin rip, Superman logo, dead tree, feather, pin up girl."

Clyde is mostly quiet as he looks over the links. He hums aloud his intrigue, pleasure, and disinterest. It's the closest to quiet that Clyde can be. "The feather is kinda cool. I like the sexy lady."

"Pin up," Craig repeats as he narrows his search. He gives Clyde a few more links, but Clyde is already busy looking at tribal tattoos now that he has a name for them.

"Wait, dude, did you see this like full arm tribal? It's like your arm."

Craig may have accidentally let Clyde see the look of horror on his face before he steels himself. "Is there something else you wanted to talk about? You're going to be here like tomorrow."

"Four days," Clyde corrects. "I'm coming home the night of my party, which you're coming to, right?"

"Always."

"Good. I miss my woman so you'll just have to do. Oh my god, she told me she saw you at Gary's open mic! You filmed for us!"

Craig sighs and leans back in his chair. He wishes he had a rolling chair with a bendable back like Token does, but he has to settle for the stiff wood chair from his parents' old dining set. He wishes he didn't have to talk about Clyde's friends. "Firkle Vargas paid me to film Henrietta. It was convenient to take another job."

Clyde rolls his eyes affectionately. "You are the grumpiest giant."

"Fuck off," Craig retorts, but he is almost laughing because Clyde is ridiculous enough to warm his icy heart from time to time. He has had his ups and downs with Clyde, but they always come back up.

"My roommate left last night and I'm already super fucking bored. I can't leave because I have one more exam-one-and it's the night before my party. So basically I'm doing nothing for the next three days. I could study, but I could also just save it for the day of, you know what I'm saying?"

Craig doesn't. He didn't study for anything in high school and he didn't even try to enroll in college.

"My dad is going on a date the night of the party so we have the house all to ourselves. Apparently he and the new lady are hitting it off because this is like the fourth or fifth date and since he'll be gone all night I guess they're expecting to have sex? That's farther than he's gotten with any of his dates since mom died," Clyde tells him, leaning back in his chair and looks up at the ceiling as he rambles.

Craig drums his fingers against his desk. He is itching to talk about Tweek or how he is feeling, but Clyde seems to have forgotten the entire reason he was begging Craig to Skype with him. Now he sits on the line irritably as Clyde babbles on. He is going to see him by the end of the week, there is no reason for the call if they aren't going to talk about Tweek. He doesn't want advice assurance, because that would be embarrassing, but he wants to talk. He wants Clyde to be a silent statue while Craig opens up for once.

"You've got to get there early and pre-game with us." Craig doesn't want to know who the 'us' is because he is pretty sure it isn't just them and Token. Clyde's tone tells him that this is not something he would like to attend. The party is bad enough. He knows the only good thing will be Tweek, so there is no reason to arrive before the blonde.

He realizes, after what is probably too long, that Clyde is silent. Craig has no idea what he was talking about, and tells him as much.

Clyde smiles patiently and says, "Who is this person who has melted Craig Tucker's icy cold heart? I need to hear all about your love life."

Craig opens his mouth. He is about to say it, about to let it come rushing forth. After all, this is why they are Skyping right before Clyde returns home. Clyde could be out having fun with his college buddies, but instead he is in his room chatting with a friend he will see in a few days. Craig looks at Clyde's excited face. He wants to hear about Craig's "love life," a phrase that makes him cringe. It's not a love life. It's an interest. His heart isn't melted. Craig closes his mouth and frowns.

Clyde droops. "Aw, come on! Really?"

"Not today."

Clyde slumps back in his chair. "You're awful."

_23:02:41 Dec 15 2012_

Craig's cold chapped lips exhale smoke, his numb fingers lowering the cigarette to his hip. He keeps his head down, trying to look inconspicuous and failing. He knows he is failing, but he may as well try. At least he looks cool. The lingering side glance Jessie is giving him as she walks up the lawn to Clyde's house confirms that feeling. He confirmed with Tweek two days ago that he would be at this party for sure. Clyde insists that just about everyone is home from college, so their entire graduating class should be in attendance. Clyde firmly believes no one would want to miss out on it. Craig hopes he is right as he stamps out his cigarette and picks up his camera off the hood of his car and adjusts it in his hands.

Jessie immediately makes eye contact with him when he enters the house. She is standing by the stairs with Annie, who waves politely, but Jessie's gaze lingers a moment before turning back to her friend. Craig keeps his expression straight. He doesn't want to give her even a frown. He has been painfully aware of her bold attraction to him since middle school. It was annoying then since she has always been good friends with Annie, who has been tight with Jimmy and Jason since seventh grade, and it was more annoying in high school when she'd openly stare at him during dances his friends dragged him to, hoping he'd ask her or she'd get the courage to ask him.

She isn't looking at him anymore, and it makes Craig feel naked. She wanted him once. He grips his camera and walks through the living room trying not to make eye contact with anyone sitting on the couch or standing around the dining room table. The kitchen is where he finds his friend, or where Clyde grabs him and gives him a loud, sloppy kiss on the cheek. "Broseph!"

"Fuck," Craig groans, backing away from him and wiping his face.

"You're the most dramatic little shit," Clyde says, grinning and patting his bicep. "Hey, I have something to show you."

Craig looks around leerily and Clyde chuckles. "Nothing weird, but I got a tattoo."

"No, you didn't."

"Oh yes I did," Clyde says through a big smile and pulls off his jacket so he can push up his sleeve. "The place had this big book full of cool designs. I almost got a Chinese symbol for Protection because of my mom, you know, but I decided to stick with my guns."

Clyde peels the medical tape off of his exposed tan bicep to reveal a beautiful, colorful pin up girl in a sexualized sailor outfit. The colors are maybe a little bright for is tan skin, but they will fade over time. Her face is smooth and elegant, her form curvaceous. He slowly drags his eyes from the art up to Clyde's smug face. "Wow," He says, because he doesn't know what else to say without fawning. He didn't expect anything more than a hideous tribal band or barbed wire.

Clyde flexes. "You doubted me. I totally had you. Dude, I trust you, and if you give me some serious good advice, I'm going to take it. Besides, the guys on the team are gonna be kicking themselves for not getting a hot lady."

Craig laughs, which isn't too hard to do around Clyde. The guy can be too peppy for his tastes, but he is his best friend, and they work together perfectly.

"Holy hell, Donovan!"

The third party of their perfect trifecta approaches in a sequined purple blazer and greets them with a round of high fives. The high fives are immediately followed by Token pulling Clyde into a tight hug. It's a friendly hug, but Craig still inches back. "Long time, man!"

"How's the movie?" Clyde asks them both, indicating the camera Craig is holding at eye level.

"Editing can be exhausting, I have a straight three weeks of footage and I'm running out of hard drives, but you know Tucker is getting some beautiful stuff."

"There is nothing beautiful about South Park," Craig corrects.

"Says the brilliant director. It's supposed to be dismal, that's what makes it beautiful. There is beauty in sorrow." Token is so serious when he says it that Craig finds himself nodding.

"How are things with Aubrey?" Clyde asks Token, and Craig tunes them out.

Token shrugs. "Not talking, barely looking at each other. I couldn't have expected anything less, I guess."

Clyde pats his shoulder sympathetically. "My woman is around here somewhere," He trails off, looking around them at the crowded kitchen.

"Can you stop calling her that? She's more than just her gender."

"Don't I know it," Clyde winks at them, and quickly disappears when he catches sight of Marjorine.

Token gives Craig a knowing look. "They think two weeks apart is a long time."

"I'm ready for the magic to die," Craig says as he watches them kiss across the room. Wendy and Nichole don't look fazed by their friend being ripped from them to engage in what is probably a very common scene for them.

"Well, we've lost him. Maybe he'll want to hang out tomorrow once he rids himself of those blue balls. I'm gonna go badger Henrietta for her next concert."

Token leaves Craig standing alone in the kitchen as Red and Jason walk by. Jason gives Craig an air fist bump, or at least that's what it kind of looks like. He looks awfully smug about it. Craig grabs a beer off the counter and sets down his camera to pop off the cap, accidentally inviting Eric Cartman to talk to him as he mixes a drink. "How's your amateur porno going?"

Craig chooses to ignore him, which never really works. There was a scary point when they were in middle school where Eric was the first boy to hit puberty, and he grew tall before anyone else, but then he stopped, and nearly everyone passed him. It was hilarious, as failures of Eric's often are. The kid barely speaks to Craig, and he likes to imagine that it's because he is so damn tall compared to Eric, compared to nearly everyone. "Did you hear me, asshole? I said, how's your porno? Your amateur porno?"

There are jibes he could make about Eric's mother, but it isn't worth speaking to him. Craig gives him one lingering glance down his long nose and turns away, camera and beer in hand.

"Shut the fuck up." Craig cringes at the sound of Kyle's voice.

"Are you in his porno? Did he get a close-up of your sandy vagina?"

"You're such a fuckass."

He does not bother to acknowledge him and instead keeps walking. He knows where Kenny and Stan usually gather in Clyde's house, and he heads for the basement guest bedroom with only a slow sweep of the camera to satisfy his requirement to film his classmates.

On his way down the staircase, Craig stares at his feet, careful with each step. The ceiling is not tall enough for him to stand up straight, so he has to stoop. He can vividly remember sprinting up and down this staircase as a child and he remembers hitting his head on it hard enough to need stitches on Clyde's fourteenth birthday. When he reaches the bottom he pauses to roll his neck and pop out the kinks.

"What are you doing here?"

Craig looks up to find his sister leaning against the wall of the hallway and talking to Ike, their faces close as they whisper some conversation back and forth.

"I should be asking you," Craig says, trying to sound disinterested, but knowing he comes across as irritated to a sister who can read him like a book.

"I'm here for the party," she answers.

"These are my friends. Don't you have kids your age throwing parties?"

"Yeah, I do," Savannah bites back, finally turning away from Ike to look up at her older brother. "And you show up to most of them and get trashed."

Craig glares at her for a few moments before his eyes wander down the rest of the basement. There are three doors divided among four walls of the large multipurpose room: a locked door that leads to the staircase up to the backyard, a locked door that leads to a closet full of Clyde's sports equipment, and an unlocked door, hanging ajar, that pulses with the occasional shoulder that bumps against it from inside. This door leads to the large guest bedroom, and Craig is tired of talking to his sister.

"Just stay away from my friends," he mutters as he walks away.

There are a few other kids in the basement, mostly the old swim team that Craig once thought about joining, but they aren't worth more than a lingering shot of them sitting on a couch and chatting. He pulls the doorknob to the guest room and is drowned in the smell of marijuana. He groans aloud at the lack of consideration and approaches Kenny, who is talking to Tweek with a smarmy smile. Craig wedges himself nearly between them, enough to divert the dealer's attention. "What do you have?"

"Whoa, there, Yao Ming, calm your shit. Tweekers here was going to buy some weed. That's all I have today."

"The fuck?"

"Yeah, well, with all these new laws popping up, I'm trying to sell what I've got."

"You're scared."

"Just smart," Kenny responds with an gratingly calm smile and holds up a small bag of weed that is enough for two people. "And patient. You want weed? Twenty bucks."

"Seriously? Asshole."

Craig grabs Tweek's arm and leads him away after he has made his exchange. They stand against the wall near window, cold radiating through the glass despite it being shut tight. Craig pulls a pipe and lighter out of his pocket in his leather jacket and hands them to Tweek. He opens the bag and packs the bowl with marijuana, pressing it down and pulls his hands away. "You wanna go first?" He asks without looking at Tweek.

"I-is something wrong?"

"No. I just want to get high." He feels awful. He wants a release. His friends can make him feel so tense, and being at parties is never easy. It's usually funny, but not tonight. Not after their last encounter with the mixed signals and Craig finally being stupid enough to admit to Clyde that he was interested in someone. That someone is standing only two feet apart, the camera focused close on Tweek's hands holding the instruments unmoving, and seeing him talking to Kenny set him off. He is feeling on edge. "Hurry up."

He watches, camera following, as Tweek's shaking hands lift the pipe to his mouth, flick the lighter aflame, and the blonde inhales. Craig exhales with him and his hands reach out to take the pipe back. He sucks in three consecutive lungfuls and passes it back. He doesn't have the will to watch, he just closes his eyes and leans his cheek against the green floral wallpaper, listening to the young man across from him smoke.

The anxiety is leaving him. The worries about his friends and the people he doesn't consider his friends float away. In the darkness of his shut eyelids, Craig can picture Tweek taking him over the mountains, his dry lips moving with the music. He remembers what he felt like before he texted Clyde. It's relieving. Craig's body relaxes.

He doesn't open his eyes until Tweek coughs and lowers the pipe. He takes the camera to Tweek's face where big, wet amber eyes look into the lens. Craig turns away and sits on the floor. Tweek slides jerking down the wall beside him until they are resting together, elbows an inch apart.

Craig looks out across the small bedroom. Stan and Pete are sitting on the bed together, sprawled back against the wall and talking quietly, neither of them looking at each other. Firkle is arguing with Kenny over the drug supply. Milly and Fosse are playing War and laughing at each other. There is no one out of the ordinary here, but whenever he thinks about the people he ends up hanging out in the same room with at parties, he can't help but think that he would have never imagined being with these people on the nights he needs release from his drab routine. He isn't sure what he would have imagined when he was in high school, but he was hoping for some new faces.

"F-fuck," Tweek groans and Craig slides his gaze over to the blonde beside him who is shuddering out a deep sigh. Maybe he can survive on new perspectives of old faces. Tweek certainly feels new. At times Craig forgets that Tweek knew him during his awkward stage and remembers when Eric pantsed him in PE. Conversely, Craig seems to have a difficult time remembering Tweek. The blonde faded into the background of Craig's high school experience, like most people he grew up with. He remembers when he and Tweek beat the fuck out of each other in third grade and he remembers how made they both were when Kyle let it slip sophomore year that he, Stan, and Eric set them up. Craig remembers Tweek's surprised laughter as Craig stalked right up to Eric and punched him in the face.

"Smoking calms me down," Tweek admits, volume barely above a whisper. His voice has a subtle rasp when it's even and calm. He turns and looks into the camera. "I know you're documenting all of this shit. May as well give you a confession."

Craig studies his uncertain expression. "You don't have to say that. It's better if you just ignore it."

Tweek nods and hands over the pipe. Craig takes another hit, exhaling his fears. They are a little on edge tonight, but it's still nice. He is taken off guard by his own compliance, but it may be for the best. Looking back on it, Denver wasn't so bad: they talked over coffee, Tweek sang, it was positive. Craig felt something. With his gaze trained on Tweek's face, he acknowledges that he still feels something. The cannabis in his system tells him to touch Tweek, because he is so close but he could be closer, so Craig sets the pipe down and puts a hand on Tweek's elbow where the scratchy knit of his sweater is bunched up. "Are you high?"

"I'm feeling it."

"Good. Good. Milly is looking at us, I think she wants us to play cards with her."

"No fucking way."

Craig turns his head to where Milly and Fosse are eying them over their card game. "We don't want to play with you guys."

Milly and Fosse break into snickers, a few deep mumbles of "that's gay," floating in Craig and Tweek's direction.

"What are you playing?" Tweek yells across the small room.

"War," Milly shouts back. "You should join us, I'm kicking his hairy butt."

"Dude," Fosse mutters and leans over, trying to shush her as she swats him away. "Not cool."

"I was joking? Everyone can probably guess you have a hairy butt, we've all seen your chest and legs at pool parties."

Tweek laughs and lays a hand on Craig's boot. It's a shame that he can see it, but he can't feel it. He wishes he had worn his Vans rather than his Docs. Warmth permeates canvas, but the wide construct of his leather boots keeps Tweek's touch out. Craig hand slides down the scratchy knit arm to rest just above his wrist. The camera wobbles in his hand, filming Milly and Fosee watching the unseen stars offscreen.

"We can play Go Fish. We don't know any other card games. I know Poker but Fosse doesn't get it."

"Go Fish!" Tweek laughs and crawls across the floor. Craig follows, shuffling on his knees and settled in around the cards. He doesn't know how to play Go Fish, but he may as well try. He can feel eyes on him, and he pans the camera around to find Stan and Pete sitting up straight on the bed beside them and peering over the footboard to watch. He flips them off and turns back to Tweek, who is looking at the cards with a curious expression. "I don't remember how to play."

Milly sighs and hands Tweek and Craig a set of cards each. "You have to collect all suits for a number. Stan, Wes, wanna join us? The game is better with more players."

Stan and Pete sink to the floor, and Craig tunes Milly out as she deals them cards and goes over the rules one last time. His face is turned completely to the side, his gaze rolling over to Tweek, who looks even more handsome than usual despite his hair being a little overgrown. The open sweater he is wearing is just as thick as the others, but underneath is a low neck Henley as opposed to the usual loose t-shirt or button down. Craig's eyes are drawn to the exposed collarbone. It's not that sexy, or at least it shouldn't be. It's a collarbone. It's light skin stretched over bone and muscle, but the deep dips and juts of his neck and his collarbone won't let Craig go.

"Got any fours?"

Craig looks up to meet Tweek's eyes. He was caught staring. There are sound and movement around, but he is locked on Tweek, and the blonde has already turned back to the game and is passing some cards to Milly. When he leans back, Craig's gaze moves up his neck to his jaw. It's a wide jaw, not unlike his own, and it comes to almost a near point before his small ears. He wants to touch it. Tweek's hair color is so light that the vague stubble on his jaw is only visible when Tweek tilts his head a certain way and the light from the bedside table is unblocked. It makes him looks like he glistens, like a foreign creature Craig wants to possess.

"Got any Jacks?"

A sharp knock on his ribs makes him blink into focus on Tweek's eyes. "That's you. Jacks." Craig looks down at the seven cards in his hand. He forgot he was playing. He hasn't made any alterations to his hand and it looks like Milly already has four aces, he wonders if they were just skipping over him. Fosse is looking at him expectantly. Craig hands over the Jack he held over his thumb and continues to look at him after he turns away. Fosse isn't appealing, not like Tweek is, not like any other boy is, but he still fixates. He is wearing pants, not his usual basketball shorts, and for once his calves are hidden. Craig likes Fosse's fat, fuzzy calves.

"I need sixes, Tucker."

"Go fucking fish."

He looks over at Tweek, who is smiling at him. Only a few nights ago they were dancing together at a house party far away from South Park. Craig doesn't give a fuck about Milly or Fosse or Stan or Wes, but they never really left for college. Fosse comes home every weekend and Milly commutes to University of Colorado at Boulder. Pete goes to Park County Community and Stan tried and failed. They've rooted their feet in South Park and everyone who lives here knows everyone else's business. In a room like this, they're all in the spotlight. He misses Denver.

"Holy fuck, Craig!" Stan spits. "Since you can't get your hungry eyes off Tweek for long enough to play the game, maybe you should get the fuck out of here and take your gay lover with you."

"Harsh, Stanley," Wes drones, a mixture of amusement and empathy lining his words.

They haven't broken their gaze, and Craig knows the others are watching them, he is sure Kenny or Firkle or his sister might be, as well after Stan's blowup. He knows what it will look like when he taps Tweek's legs and stands up, but he does it anyway. He leads Tweek out of the room and into the dim basement. As he leaves, he sees new faces, Gregory, Esther, Jason, they shouldn't be in that room. He feels naked, but Tweek is following him and it is hard to focus on anything but that.

Surrounding them is an open TV room. The floors are wood, the TV is mounted into the wall, and there is a worn out couch and coffee table facing it. The rest of the room is full of cheap shelving where Clyde and his father have kept artifacts of their old life in large buckets with masking tape and sharpie labels. The swim team is gone and the TV is playing a car commercial on mute. Craig turns around and looks at Tweek. The TV glow is catching the side of his face, lighting up his faint stubble. He hopes his camera catches a similar angle. "How are you feeling?"

"Good," Tweek says, huge eyes meeting his. "I could use something to drink."

They ascend, breaking into the fluorescent lights of the kitchen. The room is crowded, Clyde is currently shouting and fist bumping every guy in sight over a game of beer pong that he seems to be winning. A few women are flocking him, but it's meaningless. Most of the sexual attraction between South Park kids died out during high school, and anything left either lasted or is stuck in a static dance. Marjorine is on the opposite team looking like she is ready to take him down in the next round.

Token's afro rounds the corner away from them. Kyle waves to Tweek. Craig inches around the beer pong crowd, Tweek momentarily deferred as Nichole hugs him, and grabs a bottle of Popov off the table. He turns to Tweek. "Is this enough?"

Tweek lets out a barking laugh and takes the bottle from, pouring a solid dose into a Solo cup and immediately throwing back half.

"Are you shitting me?" Craig asks and takes the cup from him, drinking the rest.

Tweek drops his head and Craig can see the round cheek indicative of laughter. Craig puts a hand on Tweek's shoulder and jostles him, itching to pull him closer. Looking into Tweek's glassy amber eyes, Craig thinks of trapped insects. Tweek fists a hand in the deep v of Craig's shirt, over the moth.

A passerby elbows him hard and Craig regroups to find himself closer to Tweek than he meant to be. He looks beyond Tweek's ear to see Eric throwing him an expression of smug disdain. Tweek glances behind him and leans into Craig's neck to whisper, "Let's get out of here."

Craig grabs his arm and drags him out of the kitchen into the laundry room. He shuts the door behind them and turns to Tweek, who looks very amused. "What's wrong?"

"This is the best you could do?"

Craig frowns, but he wants to laugh. It's bubbling in his chest. He leans against the washer and Tweek follows. Craig looks at the hanging laundry and the childhood painting of Clyde's. There is an abused rug under their feet. He shrugs. "I don't know where else to go."

"There isn't anywhere else, I guess," Tweek responds. "I guess just home, but I'm… I'm drunk or high or both. I don't want to waste that. All of our friends are out there."

"Your friends," Craig corrects.

"They're okay."

Craig nods and looks over at the brooms and mops leaning against the door. He, Clyde, and Token used to sword fight with them when they were kids. The magic of childhood feels so far behind Craig that it's nauseating. He pushes off the laundry machine and turns back to Tweek. "We need to get out of here. For real. Just you and me. I need to get the fuck out of this town."

Tweek is staring at him with wide eyes. Craig doesn't know how to read the expression. He could have been too pushy of too desperate or something. He feels overwhelmed. Craig keeps the camera trained of Tweek's face while he glances anxiously around the room. He could be anywhere else. He could leave without warning.

Tweek stands up straight and opens his mouth, but says nothing. He looks deep in thought. Craig doesn't want him to think anymore. He's embarrassed and he wants. He takes a step forward, pulls Tweek forward him by his thick sweater, and kisses him.

It's his first kiss, but it doesn't feel like the movies. It feels like he is still high, it feels like Tweek is warm and wet and weird. He tightens his grip on the neck of his sweater and tilts his head, pulling him closer. His hand strapped onto the camera falls to his side when Tweek kisses him back. The shot is lost, but it doesn't matter anymore. They can leave together. Craig follows along the best he can when Tweek pries into his mouth. He sighs into Tweek when his tongue runs over the roof of his mouth behind his crooked teeth. He could stop time. He wants to stop everything and keep kissing. He wants time to continue so they can pack their things and leave.

Tweek pulls out of his mouth and says low against his lips. "Chicago."

"What?" Craig breathes, already mouthing at him again.

"We'll go to Chicago."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, everyone. This is not the end yet! The story has just begun.


	5. Chapter 5

_20:14:58 Dec 16 2012_

"All I'm saying," Clyde says over his shoulder when the clerk walks away, "is that Peter Jackson directs some epic movies."

"What does that even mean?  _Epic?_  You're telling me it's a long movie. Is that what you're saying is epic, a long movie?"

"No, I'm just saying-"

"Anyone can make a four hour movie. You could make a four hour movie and fill it with panoramic shots of mountains and plains in New Zealand and call it epic."

Clyde exchanges his money for a giant bucket of yellow popcorn and they walk into the theater, squeezing around the people standing confused in the aisle, and dodging into a close-up row that only has a few high school students in it. "I don't think that's what makes his movies good."

"They're all retellings anyway," Craig says before Clyde can explain himself. "He adds pretty scenery and a ton of CGI to old famous stories like  _Lord of the Rings_  and  _King Kong_  so people will see them. It's a guaranteed blockbuster. He's a money-hungry whore."

Clyde gives him a smile meant to pacify, but Craig frowns. "There are too many frames per second in this movie. I know it's going to make me sick."

Instead of responding, Clyde pulls out his phone and opens his pictures, showing Craig a few shots he took of the party. "Did you hear I won beer pong? I went up against like half of our class and I slaughtered."

"I wouldn't expect anything less," Craig says quickly, reluctant to change the subject.

"Marjorine almost got me. She and Eric nearly took me down."

" _Eric_?" Craig mouths, disgusted. "Don't tell me you're friends with Eric Cartman."

"Dude, he's her best friend or like brother or whatever; the name rubs off. We're kinda friendly now. Besides, she told me he's always admired me."

Craig sighs through his nose and decides not to say anything as the previews start, but he can't resist when halfway through the second preview, Clyde tells him that Cartman has grown up a lot. "You are such an idiot. I can't believe you'd fall for that shit just because of a crush."

Clyde frowns. "Marjorine's my girlfriend. I really, really like her."

"But doesn't it feel weird?"

"Does what feel weird?"

"That you've known her forever and that she's, you know, a guy."

"Not cool," Clyde levels with him, but he is calm and relaxed about the matter. "She's a woman, and if you're actually asking about sex and not doubting her choices like it sounds like you are, I don't mind it. I like her so much that I don't care what people think. Well, you should know, you're gay."

"What?" Craig deadpans.

"You and Tweek snuggling up on each other and sneaking off together?" Clyde suggests with a smile.

Craig feels a rush of horror over him, it's a cold wave running down his body from his head all the way down to his toes. He has no idea what sort of expression is on his face, but Clyde seems to read his signal immediately, and he raises his hands in apology. "Sorry, sorry, my bad, I thought you two were…"

He trails off, and Craig sits still, staring straight at Clyde with a tornado of thoughts ripping through his mind. Despite the panic and the fear, and years of being desperately closeted, Crag says, "No, uh, yeah, we are."

Clyde's face breaks into a huge grin and he pats Craig's arm. "Dude, congrats."

Clyde squeezes him in a sideways one-armed hug before retracting his arm and putting the bucket of popcorn between them. "Have some," He says with an expression that is all too enthusiastic.

Craig doesn't say anything, and he remains quiet until about halfway into the movie when he leans over and stage whispers, "One hundred percent special FX."

_15:02:41 Dec 18 2012_

Craig only finds himself at the Cartman house because Clyde begged him to join them when they were walking home from the movie theater. It was a long, whining conversation that Craig brushed off because he assumed Clyde just wanted to show off his fancy new social circle. It's not as though Craig never tried hanging out with them before Clyde and Marjorine started dating. Clyde quickly grew close to Marjorine, Wendy, and Nichole in college since they were in New York City and he was only a train ride away, but this is different. This involves friends of friends. He shudders to think about it.

It turns out he is absolutely right. There are a few regular people just hanging out that Craig can sweep his camera over, but when he gets into the kitchen he sees Wendy, Stan, Bebe, Token, Kyle, and Nichole standing around the counter talking to each other. He immediately feels uncomfortable and outside of the group. He watches, camera trained on the group of smiling people who do not notice him. The hosts and friend who invited him are nowhere to be seen, and Craig is leery of approaching Token when he is with friends, especially Kyle. He turns around and walks back into the living room.

Annie waves to him from the couch, but does not invite him any closer. Craig avoids Jason and Jimmy when he sees them and instead takes to the unfamiliar route to see who is upstairs. He hasn't been in the Cartman residence since he was a kid and even then it was only in groups, but most South Park houses have similar layouts so when he reaches the top of the stairs, he can take guesses as to what is behind each closed door.

There is a fear that he will walk in on wherever Clyde, Cartman, and Marjorine are, and when he goes to open the door of what should be the guest room, he hears voices from inside. He pauses, listening. Words are muffled, but he hears the unmistakable voices of Clyde and Cartman talking amongst themselves. As Craig tries to make out what he is hearing, he cues into Marjorine's voice. They're discussing how one of them looks, and Craig rolls his eyes, irritated that they are fawning over Marjorine, and walks back downstairs.

He cuts around the corner and into the basement where he is hit with a familiar smell of weed, but to his surprise, the only people he finds down there are Red, Pete, and Firkle. They all look up when he enters.

"Is this it?" Craig asks and Red raises an eyebrow.

"What's that supposed to mean? Yes, it's just us here."

"No Kenny or Stan to push their drugs on everyone?"

Red rolls her eyes and holds up a small bag of weed. "This is all we've got. Kenny showed up for a few minutes but took off pretty suddenly. He's trusting me to sell this."

"Not that there's anyone to sell it to," Pete mumbles. "This is the lamest party I've ever been to and the best Kenny could do to make it fun is leave $30 of weed with his girl toy."

"Hey, fuck you."

"He doesn't love you," Firkle tells her. "Romance is dead."

"I don't love him."

"As long as you're both miserable together," Pete says and Red stands up, pocketing the bag.

"Damn straight. I'm out, I'll buy this shit myself. Have fun, assholes." She flips Craig off on her way out and he returns the gesture. He stands in place, filming Pete and Firkle lounging on the floor leaning up against a couch rather than sitting on the couch itself.

He wants to ask about Tweek, but Pete was a part of the Go Fish where Craig whisked Tweek away. Pete is good friends with Stan, who openly accused Craig and Tweek of being gay, and he is sure Pete had to listen to Stan complain about it. Craig is not sure what else to do. He doesn't want to be upstairs, but he does not want to hang out down in the basement with the goths. Pete has a look on his face like he knows what Craig wants to say and he finds it hysterical.

He hasn't spoken to Tweek since the party. He debated sending him a Facebook message, but felt uncomfortable and thought it best if they organically met up at another party. After all, all of their graduating class is home for Christmas break and it seems like every night someone is having a small gathering. His Facebook invites are loaded with dates and times accompanied by messages of what drinks to bring and how to dress and whether or not people can crash on the couch if they need to. None of the events sound inviting and a bare few of them sound like they would gather the drug crowd, so Craig left every invitation unresponded to. He noticed, in a totally normal way, that Tweek didn't respond to any of them either.

The idea of talking to Tweek is terrifying, but Craig can't help but think of how relieving it was to kiss him that he refuses to let himself be too overwhelmed by his reservations. He does not know how their next interaction will go, but as long as he stays relaxed about the whole thing, then he shouldn't have to worry.

Pete raises his eyebrows and Craig realizes he has been standing in one place for far too long. He turns around and walks back up the stairs without saying another word.

At the top of the stairs, he looks around for a flash of a shaved head, but instead he finds himself making eye contact with Marjorine as she turn a corner. Clyde and Cartman are behind her, but his eyes are stuck on Marjorine's strange expression.

She approaches Craig quietly asks, "Are you okay?"

"What?" Craig asks at full voice, gaze darting around the room. No one else is paying him any mind except Clyde.

"I'm surprised to see you here. I thought you'd be pretty upset."

Craig stares at her, confused. He hates being confused, and uncertainty swells with frustration in his stomach, making him feel nauseous. "What are you talking about?" he asks, with more aggression than is probably necessary.

Marjorine puts a hand on his arm and leans in to ask, "You haven't heard about Tweek?"

Craig says nothing this time. The camera is forgotten off to the side, aimed at nothing in particular. He is not used to someone being so close to him. His eyes scan her face quickly, trying to take in her features from up close. He can see the wrinkles in her peachy makeup.

"He's in the hospital."

Craig's eyes snap from her smile lines to her eyes and the expression contained within is so serious that Craig almost laughs.

"Have you spoken to him at all?"

Marjorine's expression is so worried and real. Craig has to look away. His gaze darts around the room. The kids on the couch aren't paying him any mind. Wendy and Nichole are watching from the kitchen. He looks down at the camera in his hand but does not raise it up.

"I thought… he told me he was going to talk to you," Marjorine rushes out and Craig watches her concerned eyes as she speaks. "I only found out because I was there for group and one of the other kids told me he is sharing a room with him. I hopped over there when group let out, but he only had a few minutes before he was whisked away to therapy and he told me he wanted to talk to you. I didn't think you'd be here."

Clyde is watching, but not listening. He knows. Craig takes a step back. The words hospital and rehab are still echoing in his head, flitting in and out of blank spaces without sticking. He has no idea what to do with the information, what to make of it. What do those words even mean?

"I'm sorry," Marjorine tells him. "I thought you knew."

_11:42:05 Dec 19 2012_

The camera is sitting on the dash, pointed at Craig as he sits in the parking lot of The Children's Therapy Center. He does not want to give the camera the satisfaction of seeing his face, so he sits slumped in the driver's seat with his head tilted down as he scrolls through his phone. Marjorine's information paired with the hospital website affirms that this is where he is supposed to be, but he has reservations. According to the really vague Google research he did sitting up in bed the night before, he should be in the right place. It's a one story brick building. It has a large fenced-in backyard like houses do, but it looks like a park with benches and trees and a garden. It's snowed over, but well-shoveled. There are a few people walking around an unseen footpath.

He looks at the front entryway. He can see a receptionist behind a desk and a few people standing in front of it. When they leave, he pockets his phone and gets out of his car, locking the video camera in the trunk.

As he pushes open the door to the facility, comforting heat encourages him to remove his jacket. However, the heat is the only comforting thing. Everyone in the room turns to look at him before quickly averting their gazes. The receptionist smiles at him.

"Checking in or visiting?"

"Tweek Tweak," he says. She frowns. "I'm here to see Tweek Tweak. I'm a visitor."

She scrolls through the bulky beige computer in front of her and he looks around the lobby. There are a few chairs, but it doesn't look like a waiting room, more like the front room to a small hotel. There is an attempt at decor in the room, silk plants and tapestry curtains filling the room with artificial coziness. There is a girl sitting on a chair, staring up at a wall mounted television where the news plays on silent. Craig notes the tears running silently down her cheeks. Who Craig can only assume are her parents sit adjacent to her, filling out paperwork on a clipboard. His fingers twitch, muscle memory longing to hit the zoom button on such a scene. A few halls lead from the lobby, the walls lined with doors. He makes eye contact with another young girl in a beanie sitting in a lobby chair and glaring at him over her Gameboy. He turns back to the receptionist, who has a hand extended to him. "Your ID?"

Once she checks his driver's license, she goes over protocol while he signs his name and date of birth onto a half sheet of paper. He barely hears her, instead reading the board behind her head that tells him which doctors are in and which seminars are occurring today. There is a painting class and yoga.

"Sir?"

Craig checks back in, making eye contact with the receptionist.

"Sir, do you have any electronics, sharp objects or drugs on you today?"

"What?"

"Cellphones, car keys, scissors, pocket knife, lighters, cigarettes, medication?"

"Um, my phone and keys."

"I'll hold on those for you up here."

Reluctantly, Craig hands them to the woman at the desk. She slides it into a cubby behind her, along with the small piece of paper that identifies his belongings.

"We told him you're coming." She points to a male nurse who then leads Craig down one of the hallways and through a heavy wooden door. The door locks behind them with a metallic thunk and Craig notices the number pad required to get the door to open again. They're in a small empty room, no larger than the bathroom he shares with his sister. The nurse intentionally blocks Craig's view as he punches the code for the second door. On the other side, there is a living room, not unlike the living rooms of various homes in South Park. Admittedly, it is larger, with four couches directed towards a large television and a few small tables scattered amongst armchairs that line the walls. There is a family sitting on a couch in front of the television, but Tweek Tweak with his fuzzy head is sitting in an armchair by the metal barred window. Craig is thankful to see a familiar face, distracting him from the claustrophobia that has begun to set in.

Tweek is wearing green South Park Cows sweatpants, but otherwise he looks completely normal in his thick sweater and Birkenstocks. Craig approaches and sits in the opposite armchair, a small round table stands between them. He avoids looking at Tweek, his eyes sweeping throughout the room. The gaudy interior design from the entry way has been abandoned for functional furniture and tables that are bolted to the ground. How many movies has Craig watched where characters end up in mental institutions? How did he not realize this is where Tweek would be?

There is a hallway that leads to what Craig assumes are bedrooms. Along one wall is a collection of the types of phones you only see in hospitals and prisons. Beside the phones is a row of windows where various people are standing and talking on the other side. It is clear these people are not patients. From this fishtank, a man emerges and walks directly towards Tweek and Craig. He sits down in a chair a few feet from them, occasionally glancing up at Craig while he plays a game on his smartphone.

Craig glares at the employee for a few moments before finally turning to study Tweek's face. He doesn't looks any different. His hair is still a little overgrown, but he does not look tired or sick. He looks just as he did when they stood in the laundry room at Clyde's house a few days ago. Craig feels like he could strike up a conversation about their classmates or about how Kenny passed his drug duties onto Red at the last party, but Tweek's face is stoic. He doesn't seem angry or disappointed. He barely looks sad at all. Tweek is neutral. Craig's eyes snap back to the attendant that is watching them and Craig audibly sighs.

"He's not going anywhere," Tweek assures him. "He has to make sure you're not sneaking me drugs."

The nurse smiles at them, and Craig shows him his most influential finger.

Craig wants to speak quietly, but he also doesn't want to give their chaperone the satisfaction of making him uncomfortable, so Craig tries his best to ignore the man.

"So," he begins. "What happened?"

"Gah!" Tweek lurches backwards, pulling his legs up on to the chair and wrapping his arms around his calves. "I crashed my parents' car."

"When?

"After Clyde's party. I guess I was still high and kind of drunk and I just drove right through the garage door without opening it."

"Shit."

"Yeah… Ugh! I fucked up!"

"So they sent you to rehab for that?"

Tweek shrugs, watching him with narrowed eyes that make Craig uncomfortable.

"It was bound to happen," Tweek tells him. "It's what everyone wanted to happen."

"What do you mean everyone wanted it to happen?"

"Shit! They just did! They all want me to stay here!"

Craig leans back into his armchair and crosses his arms across his chest. He's put off. This isn't the Tweek that filled him with hope and a desire to run away. This isn't his chariot to Chicago. This guy looks sick.

"When are you going to get out of here?"

"I don't know! Depends on how I do!"

"Stop yelling, dude, shit."

Tweek simply twitches in his chair.

"Are you okay, Tweek?" comes the soothing voice of the man that is still sitting near them.

"I'm fine, Rick," Tweek mumbles, leaning his forehead on his knees.

"I wish I could get you out of here," Craig sneers, his words directed to Tweek, but his eyes trained on Rick.

"Gah! Why?!"

"This place isn't good for you," Craig decides.

There is no response from Tweek. The other man does not lift his head from where it has fallen to his knees. Craig feels nauseous. His hands drum nervously against his thighs. Rick stands and approaches them. Craig watches, his ears rushing with blood as the nurse leans over Tweek and rubs his back.

"Do you need to go to your room for a bit?"

Tweek rocks in his chair and Craig feels his face turning red with frustration.

"What do you need, Tweek?"

"I need my meds."

"You have twenty-four more hours of drug hold."

"I can't, I can't," Tweek moans, breathing heavily into his legs.

"Come on," Rick coos, helping Tweek stand and guiding him down the hallway. Craig does not watch them leave. He stares right at the empty chair where Tweek had been sitting a moment before.

He wants to leave before Rick comes back to tell him he has to, but he doesn't know how, so he begrudgingly waits. He glances around the room a bit, wishing he had his camera. It seems a few other visitors have arrived, and people play board games, watch television or simply sit and laugh together. Part of Craig wishes he had an excuse to wear pajamas and drag his feet around a mental hospital all day.

"Cock!"

Craig's eyes target the source of the profanity. A young freckled man with sandy hair sits across from a middle aged woman. A scrabble board is laying between them and they are laughing.

"Asshole!"

The woman is undisturbed by her son's outbursts and Craig can only think of how Tweek doesn't belong here with these crazy people.

"Aw, shit!"

"Thomas, you're going to beat me again," his mom laments.

Craig stands and is moving towards the boy and his mother before he prepares what he's going to say. The two of them look up at Craig when they realize he is standing there and Thomas's mother seems to be preparing a defense.

"Hi?" Thomas asks.

"Hey. Thomas? I'm Craig. Do you remember me?"

"Yeah. Of course I do. How are you? Are you here to visit Tweek?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Stupid shit!"

"I was. He went to bed."

"Yeah, he's having a hard time off all of his meds. I think he's struggling to stay cognizant."

Craig nods, reminding himself to google the definition of  _cognizant_  when he gets in the car. He hesitates, unsure of what to say next and feeling surprise relief when Rick returns.

"I'm sorry," the attendant tells Craig, "he's having a hard time adjusting. He'll feel better tomorrow, why don't you visit then?"

He turns from Thomas and his mother and doesn't wave goodbye as Rick leads him back to the exit. He passes through each thick door as it is held open for him. Craig retrieves his belongings from the front desk and bolts to the car.

_12:04:26 Dec 20 2012_

Craig feels a lot less anxious on his second trip to the Youth Center, and he purposefully left his phone and camera in the car, depositing his ID and keys with the woman at the front desk when he approaches. When the nurse leads him to the common room, which has a few more people in it today, he looks at Tweek, sitting in the same armchair by the window with the sunlight glaring over him, and he sees a new angle of the young man.

He doesn't know what it is exactly, but that tightness in his stomach that he usually feels when he sees Tweek is accompanied by a temperature shift he doesn't know how to interpret. It is as though the moon is waning, but it's too damn bright to make out the craters. He stands still for a moment, watching Tweek, trying to capture him as he is. The blonde does not react to him, and he feels safe observing until the nurse catches his eye and he feels forced to proceed.

Craig takes the seat across from Tweek as he did the day before. The man is in sweats again, which makes Craig feel a little better about the old hoodie he pulled over his PetSteps polo to cover up any evidence of his shitty job. Tweek has a book in his lap, closed with a finger propped in it like Craig interrupted him in the middle of an intense plot and not that the nurse dragged Tweek from his room or an inpatient-only common room to bring him to meet his visitor. Maybe he wanted Craig to feel outcasted. Craig frowns and leans forward, studying the little that Tweek will show him of his downturned face.

"How's it going in here?"

"Fine."

"What happened yesterday?"

Tweek gives him a passing glance as he raises his head to gaze out the window instead of at the book cover. He makes no move to answer and Craig feels like reaching over and shaking him until Tweek spill everything, or at least holds eye contact with him for more than a second. His chest is tight with frustration. He feels a little lost.

He googled  _cognizant_  when he arrived home the day before, and found it meant "being aware of." Tweek didn't look spaceout or crazy the day before, and he mostly looks okay today, but something about him looks off. There is a strange look in his eyes that Craig cannot pinpoint. Thomas told him Tweek was off his meds, whatever that means.

He returned today partly due to concern and partly due to curiosity. Thomas indicated a few things that filled gaps that Craig didn't realize were left open until yesterday. For much of last night he mulled over the few words exchanged with the guy after Tweek was taken away, his camera took hours of footage of him absently playing video games, trained on Craig's face and missing all the deaths and losses occurring as Craig thought a little too hard.

Having trouble staying cognizant means that Tweek feels disconnected and he can't plug himself back in. Tweek's eyes are unmoving as they aim through the glass and beyond the bars, but they don't seem to be looking at anything in particular, just some trees or the mountains in the distance. If he thinks enough about it, which he isn't fond of doing, Craig could understand what it feels to be disconnected. He is familiar with apathy and carelessness. He would sit in his high school classes and study everyone around him and condemn them for being idiots. He would watch them flirt and socialize and realize how fucked they all were, which brought him back to how fucked he is.

Tweek sinks lower in his chair and says, "I'm just not feeling well."

The key to finding out more information may be leading him on. Direct questions are not working, so he may need to be clever. "Kenny wasn't at Marjorine and Cartman's party. Red sold his shit for him. Just weed again," He says, even though the nurse can clearly heard him.

Tweek doesn't respond.

"I wasn't in the mood for it, so I just left."

Nothing.

"I haven't been that bored at a party in a long time," He says, almost openly admitting that he has fun with Tweek when they crash boring parties and gossip about the kids around them, just in case making out a few days ago was not enough to prove that. Craig thought that maybe after being stupid enough to open himself up, their relationship would be different. He wasn't sure exactly what he was expecting, but the blank boy sitting across from him was not it.

Tweek turns his head suddenly, passed Craig and toward the far corner of the room. He watches a kid and a mom chatting quietly and his eyes widen. He strains to be closer, like he can pick up supersonic hearing if he just scoots an inch or two closer. Tweek looks anxious, his body tense and set.

"Dude," Craig says slowly, "Are you okay?"

Tweek twitches and snaps his amber gaze to him. His dry lips fall open, but he says nothing. Tweek looks awful, absolutely awful. Craig thinks back to telling Tweek the day before that this place isn't good for him. Now he isn't sure if that's true or not. He certainly seems to be at rock fucking bottom, but the question of where this all came from still lingers. Thomas seemed to know.

Bony fingers bunch up the legs of his sweatpants, but he goes back to looking out the window like nothing just happened. He looks tense, his eyes waver and seem to want to watch the mother and child. Craig watches them for him. They don't seem suspicious.

Without warning, Tweek stands up and a nurse is immediately flocking to him. "I have to go," He tells Craig and walks off, the nurse touching his back lightly as he goes.

Craig sighs and leans back in the chair for a moment. He does not want to process what this all means. It's a lot of information. He stands and walks out of the room, nurses' eyes following him.

Once in the hallway, he hears a soft, distant muttering of " _shit_." Craig's full body jerks. He stops and turns toward the sound. It's around a corner, and he makes sure no one is watching him as he takes a few steps and rounds the corner. At the end of the hallway in front of a window that reveals the backyard, there is a line of telephones and Thomas is sitting on the ground under them, a phone pressed to his ear.

Seeming to sense being stared at, Thomas catches sight of Craig and quickly stands. He waves and turns back into the phone, muttering quickly and quietly before snapping the phone back on the receiver. He grins at Craig as he approaches. "Sneaking around, are you?  _Balls_!"

Craig raises his eyebrows in amusement. "I heard someone making a ruckus, thought I'd check it out."

Thomas laughs, but gives him an expression like Craig is being cheesy, which he doesn't think he is being. "It's hard to always be an R-rated spectacle; I attract weirdos."

Craig gives him a reserved half smile. Thomas knows things. Craig's morbid curiosity seemed to hitting a wall with an unresponsive Tweek, but he saw some things that interested him. He eyes Thomas carefully. The man is shorter than he is (but isn't everyone?) He is round and soft. His ears stick out from his hair, which is cropped closely on the sides and left messy and long-ish on the top. He is wearing a soft green t-shirt that reads "Olivine City Gym Champion." Craig doesn't know of any Olivine City in Colorado. He is pretty sure Thomas still lives in Park County. Thomas' face carries a big smile. He looks a good deal healthier than when Craig knew him as kids.

"So how was Tweek?"

"Fine," Craig says, and then corrects himself. "Unresponsive."

"Ah. Typical, I guess. His body is just reacting to the chemical change. They're probably altering his meds. I think he mentioned in therapy that they've taken him off everything, so they probably want to detox him and start all over."

Craig nods as though he knows what that means.

"It's,  _fuck_ , common practice here."

"Which you would know."

"Of course," Thomas tells him without faltering. "I've had Tourette's Syndrome since I was seven and my parents separated almost immediately after, I've needed a lot of therapy." He pauses for a moment and then says, "I'm not in the rehab program. I'm just in-patient for mental health. Depression."

Thomas looks so at ease that Craig can't help but feel calm. Craig has questions he needs to ask, but he has to figure out the most tactful way to ask them if he wants to find out about Tweek without being too nosy, and then he realizes the first, most glaring question.

"How did you know I was here to see Tweek?"

Thomas gives him an inquisitive smile. "He talks about you in group pretty often. Fuck, shouldn't have said that."

Craig smiles, "What?"

"Confidentiality. What's said in group stays in group. Sometimes I just say stuff, though. Tourette's has a way of weakening my filter, but it's totally my fault for not controlling that."

"Ah."

"But I hear you two are regular party kids," Thomas says with a sly smile, completely undoing his loosely woven apology from moments before.

"Yeah, I guess so."

" _Cock!_ You guess? I've never been to a party that didn't involve Skype and a few friends I've never seen in person or tagging along with my mom to really boring grown up parties. I've been to baby showers, which are supposed to be ladies only."

Craig nods, uncertain how to respond. It's a lot of information to process at once. He thought he felt overwhelmed digesting the scenario with Tweek a few minutes prior, but Thomas is spitting facts and context at him that he doesn't have time to file away properly. He wishes he had his camera so he could play this conversation back.

"You two are quite the duo."

Craig says nothing.

" _Tits!_ "

He shudders and digs his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. He should probably be heading out soon, he has work soon.

"You're making a movie."

Craig opens his mouth, fascinated and speechless.

"The counselors are fucking fascinated by that. I can only imagine the prodding that happens in his private sessions, but in group the counselors are always like, " _Craig filmed you doing that? You were okay being filmed like that? You smoked weed on camera? He brought a camera into a bar?_ " It's hysterical. Tweek is either totally cool with it or just has blocked it out completely, I can't tell."

"Yeah, I guess it can be a little… revealing?"

"I imagine that's the point," Thomas says simply and Craig thinks that makes perfect sense.

"Yeah, my friend wants to make a movie about South Park."

"Very cool. What do you expect to find?"

Craig shrugs.

Thomas looks around and swears, which Craig isn't sure is a part of his Tourette's or a regular expletive. "I have to go. I have finger paint like, now. I know,  _finger painting_." He laughs and walks passed Craig and through a heavy wood door.

Craig watches for a moment after he left and then walks toward the lobby himself. A nurse eyes him, but he doesn't give them the opportunity to speak to him. He picks up his artifacts from the front desk and removes his camera from the trunk of his car to sit on his dashboard as he drives to work.

_13:11:26 Dec 20 2012_

"Eleven minutes late! You just missed the grace period." Filmore's arms are up in the arms like Craig just scored a touchdown. A customer turns from the wall of fish tanks to observe the commotion with an irritated expression. Craig doesn't acknowledge her or Filmore. He walks to the back with his camera in hand, ignoring the jovial shouts behind him. "You better not change the fucking time card, you entitled prick! You're just a retail slave!"

Craig sets his stuff down in the back office and pulls off his hoodie to throw over the back of his desk chair. He doesn't punch in, and instead writes his name of the "missed punch" log, claiming he arrived three minutes ago, just within the grace period. He doesn't want to look to punctual. Besides, it seems weird that Filmore is in the store alone.

He drapes his name tag around his neck and walks out of the office and barely avoid bumping into Victor coming in through the backdoor.

His boss is a man in his mid-sixties with tight curly hair and a thin moustache. He opened PetSteps when Pets-U-Luv couldn't rebuild after the fourth time the mountain town was destroyed, and smartly kept it near the border of Middle Park as to save it from some harm. He recently opened another location down in Hartsel, about twenty minutes away, and is spending most of his time there. It was nice being promoted to a manager, but Victor bumped Kyle up to general manager, and the ginger douchebag basically runs the damn place. He does everything but the operations costs, but Craig wouldn't be surprised if those duties shift over to Kyle soon.

Victor is a stern but humble man, and he smiles brightly at the sight of Craig. "Oh, Craig, you're here. That's great. I was just taking out the trash. I have to head down to Hartsel soon; I have an interview to do - apparently the girl worked at a Petco in Colorado Springs before her family moved to Park County. She may know fish!"

"That's great," Craig says, humoring him.

"Keep that boy in check," Victor says, darting his eyes toward the front of the store.

"Always do."

Victor gives him a signature old person squinty smile and pats his arm. "You're a good kid."

Victor goes into the office and Craig walks up to the store, where Filmore is ringing up a customer. The high schooler is eying Craig as he sorts through the basket of things to be put back on the shelves and disappears down the aisles with them. Only eight more hours to go.

_13:22:56 Dec 21 2012_

Craig is trapped in a bout of deja vu, sitting in an armchair by a window with Tweek seated across from him. The blonde's legs are tucked up under him, the same book lying in his lap. He leaves it open this time as though he will pick up reading any moment and is just giving his eyes a brief reprieve. Craig feels like he is interrupting something.

He thought about waiting for Tweek to speak first but after about fifteen minutes of watching Tweek read and about five minutes of watching him look out the window, his already short patience is waning.

The television in the room has a family sitting in front of it, they are talking to each other, but the volume is loud enough for Craig to hear the orchestra concert playing on public access. Violins give music to the image of Tweek sitting before him. It's ridiculous, if he looks at it objectively, but in the moment it just feels overwhelming. He used to have images of Tweek as the love interest in all the movies he will never make, but now the picture-perfectness of the scenario makes him uncomfortable. All he thinks about when he thinks of Tweek is morbid curiosity.

Tweek looks down at his book and Craig immediately interrupts him. "Really? I come out here to see you three days in a row and all you do is read? You stare out the window and you read. Thank you for assuming that's enough to keep me around."

Tweek makes eye contact with him, but his eyes look washed out in the sunlight. All Craig sees are sclera and pupils. He frowns and leans forward in his chair, not breaking eye contact with Tweek. The blonde closes the book without saving the page. Without the book open, he looks jittery.

"What do you want to talk about?"

"I don't know," Craig admits.

Tweek frowns and twitches. "Then what is there to say?"

"I want to know why you're here."

"I crashed my parents' car. I drove high."

"So you got in one accident, made one mistake, and now you're in rehab? Don't they just suspend your license and send you to driving school? You hit your own damn garage."

Tweek definitely looks uncomfortable, and now that Craig is engaging him in conversation, he can see the shadow of the boy he never really know in elementary school, shaking and shouting all the time without a filter. It's an unpleasant connection, one that he doesn't think is deserved. Surely, Tweek has grown passed all of that chaoticness.

"Driving high is illegal," he says through his teeth, his voice cracking. "Driving under the influence of marijuana is illegal."

"Weed is not not addicting."

Tweek jerks a hand over his hair. "Between that and the drinking I've been doing…"

"Really," Craig deadpans.

"Yes! Gah!" Tweek stands up. "God, you're such an asshole!"

Craig slumps back in the chair, watching Tweek walk up to a nurse. The blonde is giving up too easily. He is not whether it is worth his time to drive out here every day when Tweek keeps walking out on him. It would be nice if the man gave him something in return, but he is getting nothing out of him. He stands and walks out of the room after Tweek, and standing in the hallway already looking at him is Thomas. He immediately shouts out, " _Tits_!" upon seeing him.

Thomas approaches with a sheepish grin. "Hey."

"Hey yourself."

Thomas glances down the hallway in the direction Tweek left. "Everything okay?"

"More or less," Craig answers because that seems like the truth.

"He's not a very chatty kid in group. He volunteers a lot less than the other kids around here. We're in the older group and basically everyone is quiet.  _Ass!_ It's totally different than what it was like in the eighteen and under group, mostly everyone there would share their feelings with a little prodding.  _Fuck!_ "

"I can't imagine you need much prodding."

Thomas pauses for a moment, long enough for Craig to think that he may have hurt his feelings, and then Thomas laughs. "You got me. I do a lot of peer counseling."

"They let a kid who screams "fuck" in the middle of a conversation counsel children?"

Thomas shrugs, "It's not often they have someone who is willing to talk. I react very well to my meds.  _Bitch!_ "

"That's right, depression."

"You got it. Besides, I come here a few times a week when I'm not in-patient, so those times I usually have my suppressor on."

"Your suppressor?"

"It's a little machine that hooks to my head and helps me control my ticks. I do a lot less cussing that way. I'm like 80% more kid friendly. When I'm here they don't let me wear it, which is just fine. Sometimes it's nice to just let loose, especially since everyone's gotten used to it pretty quickly. It makes me feel a lot less depressed about it."

"Why would you feel depressed about it? I told you, if I had Tourette's I'd be stoked."

Thomas shoots him a look at makes him feel a little guilty. "It's not fun. Whenever I go out in public, people stare at me. It's a miracle when I can get in and out of a store or something before I have to tic. A lot of people in North Park know of me by now, but they're not used to it. They think I'm a freak. It sucks."

"Well, fuck them. I bet their lives suck a lot worse than yours."

"You don't know me," Thomas says with a small, cautious smile.

"Besides, you say what you want without a filter. That's pretty awesome."

"You're the only person on the planet that feels that way."

"I  _am_  the only person on the planet, Thomas."

Thomas opens his mouth and pauses. He studies Craig, really looks at him, and Craig feels itchy all over. Thomas' green eyes search his own and then leave for his neck and down to his torso, probably taking in his clothes right down to his shoes. He's already forgotten what he wore and it would feel stupid to look down and check while Thomas is so obviously looking him over.

Thomas holds out his arms, which are textured in pale horizontal waves. It takes Craig a few moments to understand what he is looking at, and Thomas tics loudly under his gaze. " _Cock!_ These aren't suicide attempts. I've thought about it.  _Damnit!_ I've been thinking about it since I was nine,  _aw shit_ , I tried it once when I was twelve, but killing myself would not solve my mom's problems.  _Fuck!_ I made her life harder, but her only child's suicide is not going to make it easier."

He is quiet for a few moments, and Craig doesn't try to interject with useless words.

"When my dad left my mom, I thought-  _Balls!_  it was my fault. Of course, it was in a way, but if that was enough to make him leave, then he clearly didn't love my mom.  _Shit, shit._  There are vows taken when people get married. I imagine he broke those long before he walked out."

The confession takes Craig aback. Someone so chatty shouldn't be so eloquent. His words are powerful even when his voice is lowered. He never considered suicide, not for himself and not for anyone else. He supposes that statistically he must know a lot of people who have contemplated suicide, but he certainly doesn;t know who they are. He looks Thomas over. "Why are you telling me this?"

Thomas' thick lips turn into a frown. "No filter, I guess. Sorry."

"I didn't-"

A nurse quickly approaches, "Thomas, do you need a minute?" She then turns to Craig and looks down at his name tag stuck on his chest. "Shouldn't you be on your way out?"

Craig looks at Thomas. "I didn't mind."

_22:31:48 Dec 22 2012_

"Well?" Clyde finally asks after they have been sitting together playing  _Need 4 Speed Underground 2_  on Clyde's PS2 for nearly an hour. Token brings the footage back to regular speed and rewinds to catch what he fast forwarded through. Craig has been repeating activities over the past few days: work, porn, sleep, driving Savannah around. Token has enough footage of these things already, and it's not as if Craig has been speaking enough to any one to share any important information. Token desperately needs something to make up for the missing chunks of footage for when Craig is turning the camera off.

Craig grunts simply in response, busy trying to drift around a sharp turn.

"How is Tweek doing?"

Craig crashes the car into a wall that really has no business being in the middle of a city.

"You've visited him, right?"

"No."

Clyde pauses the game and leans over, making sure Craig can see his disbelieving expression. Sometimes, Token wants to punch him, and he knows Craig is fighting the urge as Clyde gapes at him. "I didn't visit him. What the fuck do you want?"

"Dude, he's in the hospital."

"No, he's in rehab."

"How would you know that if you didn't talk to him?"

"Marjorine told me."

"No, she didn't because she didn't tell me."

"Maybe she doesn't tell you everything."

The offended look on Clyde's face is enough to satisfy Craig for the moment. He reaches over to unpause the game, but Clyde immediately pauses it again. Token cringes. He can't imagine this turning out too well, and he's suddenly connects the distraught text he received from Clyde the day before that simply read, "We're losing him again."

"Dude."

"Drop it."

"Dude."

"I didn't see him and I'm not going to."

Token knows he's lying of course. Craig may leave the camera in the car, but he gets to watch Craig drive to the hospital every day and he gets to watch him burn through three cigarettes on the way home. Clyde sits back on the couch, but his eyes never leave Craig. In the background, Clyde's dad is pattering around the kitchen, fixing them a late night snack. Craig rolls his neck and grabs his beer, tossing back a mouthful and unpausing the game.

Token pauses the footage and swears under his breath, writing down the timestamp of Clyde and Craig's conversation and going over the numbers repeatedly while he thinks. There's no way Craig is getting a camera inside the hospital; Token needs to get Craig talking about his trips to visit Tweek on camera. Token finally drops his pen once the numbers are nothing but thick, indigo blocks. He grabs his phone and texts Clyde.

"I know. I'm worried about him."

_13:04:21 Dec 23 2012_

"Where were you?"

It's the first thing that Tweek has said to him without pulling teeth since they started meeting at the center. After a few days of wishing that Tweek would respond to him, it's surreal that Tweek would be the one to make the first move. The blonde stares at him with intense eyes. There is no book in his lap this time and his feet are planted firmly on the floor. He looks more alert than Craig has seen him since Clyde's party.

"Where were you?"

"Working."

Tweek doesn't look satisfied. He looks more on edge. It's a terrifying expression, but at least there is focus in his eyes. He looks like a real person for once. It reminds Craig of when Tweek first walked into the Thanksgiving party and sat beside him. He doesn't look like the boy he's known for most of his life, but he looks like one he could get to know.

"Listen, I would have been here if I could, but it's not like you've been begging me to visit."

Tweek frowns, and Craig is thankful for an expression he can read.

"Gah! I'm sorry. Obviously, I'm going through some stuff."

"Clearly."

Tweek sits back in his seat and sighs, "I just need some time."

"Time for what?"

"Ugh! Time for them to figure out my meds and time for me to sort through some stuff and then I'll be back to normal and we can get back to us."

"To us?"

"What?! To whatever we were doing! Ugh, I can't handle you right now!"

Craig crosses his arms tight across his chest, letting Tweek shout and twitch in his seat. He knows a nurse will be there in a moment, casting judgemental eyes towards Craig and his ability to send a twenty-two year old man screaming to his bedroom.

"Tweek, are you alright?"

"I'm fine!" Tweek shouts at the nurse.

There is no other conversation. Craig watches Tweek leave with his lips pursed. He instinctually reaches for his phone so he can bury himself in Candy Crush, but it's not there. His hands remain frustratingly idle, and he shoves them deep into his pockets as he stands.

"Short visit today.  _Shit!_  You skip a day and then you only hang out for ten minutes. You may be in the doghouse."

Craig lifts his head to see Thomas standing a few feet away with his arms crossed and a small smile on his lips.

"Yeah, he seemed irritable," Craig looks down at his hands and then back up at Thomas. "You have a visitor?"

"My mom was just here, but she wasn't-  _cunt!_ here yesterday, so I had to stand around in the hallway for three hours."

"Why?"

Thomas raises his eyebrows and Craig cringes.

"Shit, man, I didn't think you'd wait around for me."

"It's fine," Thomas says, waving it off. "I had this like, killer vanilla pudding, so I was fine."

"I prefer chocolate."

"They only offer vanilla here; better stay out of rehab."

Despite himself, Craig lets out a short burst of laughter before stopping himself. He should feel guilty. He stiffens his expression to his usual blank demeanor. "I'm sure he's been spitting shit about me."

" _Fuck._ Not really. He's going through a lot of stuff right now. Lucky for you, you're only one out of twenty things he's fighting with."

Thomas' face carries a tinge of mirth and optimism, but Craig just feels annoyed and jealous. It's sudden, and he looks around to try to change the subject. Over by the door, a fussy grandmother is patting down her teenage granddaughter's frizzy hair. "Does your mom visit you a lot?"

"Every day that she has visiting hours off work. She's a nurse, so her schedule is all over the place. Today we played Chutes and Ladders. She won every round.  _Ass._  I wanted to follow up with Candyland because I rock at Candyland, but she told me not to be a sore loser."

"Is that all you guys do when you're together?" Craig asks, eying the tall stack of board games on top of a bookshelf.

"We also play Life.  _Cock._ "

"What variety."

Thomas leads him over to a nearby table and picks up a painting on a thin piece of watercolor paper. It's mostly blue tones with a spiral sun and a butterfly. He holds it out to Craig, who hesitantly takes it and looks it over. It's not a very good drawing, but Craig can barely draw a stick figure, so he can't complain too much. "It's the wrong sort of tone. I guess I should have been aiming for jolly or warm, but when I think Christmas, I often think about the darkest days of the year. And then I wanted to personalize it," He says and points to the butterfly. Craig tilts his head, taking in the thick, wavering lines and harsh colors. He wonders briefly where Thomas got the impression of the butterfly from him before he quickly sets the painting down and unzips his jacket. He pulls down the loose neck of his t-shirt and Thomas swears. "A moth, dammit. I totally thought I had it figured out."

"You could have asked."

" _Piss._ I thought it'd be a strange question, I only ever see the tips of wings, nothing more concrete. I figured you'd be weirded out if I asked about the least visible tattoo you have, though I'm sure you have tattoos in much naughtier places. But, uh, Merry Christmas."

The round face across from him is so open and pleased. He seems completely unembarrassed by his incorrect guess, or that he has been peeking at Craig's tattoos, or that he made somewhat of a sexual joke about Craig. He doesn't even seem to care that Craig showed up empty-handed. "Thanks. I didn't get you anything."

"You don't have to," Thomas responds and it is clear that he is being completely honest.

"Sorry," Craig says anyway, even though it isn't needed.

"Please, it's a different life for me in here than it is for you out there. I don't have much to do, I don't have my mom, I don't have my dog, and my roommate keeps talking about what to make his family for Christmas. It was kind of circumstantial, I wasn't expecting-  _tits!_  anything in return."

"I won't be here until the twenty-sixth."

"That's all I needed to know." Thomas puts his hands in his Olivine City hoodie pocket.

Craig thinks about asking him about Tweek; he knows he can draw a few answers from him, but Thomas is being so friendly that it feels manipulative and weird to ask about Tweek after Thomas just made him a present. Craig is never put on the receiving side of nice gestures, so he just picks up the painting and holds it gingerly as he excuses himself. Before he leaves, Thomas tells him to have a good  _cock!_ Christmas, and Craig duly repeats it back to him.

_20:48:03 Dec 25 2012_

Although he was pretty enthusiastic about the game, Craig finds that seven hours of  _Far Cry 3_  is way too many. He took a break to eat a long, quiet dinner with his family, but most of his day consisted of frantically consuming the only tangible present he got for Christmas. Other than the video game he had been anticipating, his gifts from his parents were socks and a scarf he won't wear, along with a promise that if he goes to community college, his parents will pay for it and his books. Savannah gave him a plush camera strap, which is the most weirdly thoughtful gift he could have imagined. He kind of expected a coupon to McDonald's. The only thing he got his sister was a bag from the thrift store that he wasn't really sure she'd like anyway. She seemed pleased, but the gift paled in comparison to what she gave him.

Craig was about three hours into his second sitting of  _Far Cry 3_  when his phone rang and he dropped the remote without pausing to answer the call. His guinea pigs, who are walking slowly around his bed, scamper to the far corners in surprise. He doesn't say anything when he clicks "accept;" Token does the talking for him.

"Ho ho ho," Token laughs and Craig frowns. He is about to respond when he hears Clyde in the background.

"Did Santa leave you any thick, juicy presents when he came down your chimney last night?"

Craig rolls his eyes, even though his friends can't see him. He picks up Lenora and scratches her back. "Just  _Far Cry 3_ , which is not as cool as everyone thought it was going to be."

"Really? Damn, I haven't tried it yet," Token says. Of course he'd get the game for Christmas. Token gets everything.

"Any chance we can steal you?" Clyde asks.

Craig looks around his room. He pauses the game and eyes the drawer where a bottle of Jack he thought about drinking hides. Drinking with only a game for company could be okay, but hanging out with his friends could be even better, or perhaps worse, but he has been pretty lack for footage lately and there are only so many hours he can spend filming himself play video games. He agrees reluctantly.

Twenty minutes later, he hears his sister answering the door and a few seconds later, heavy feet are stomping up the stairs. Craig puts Lenora and Gideon away as Token and Clyde burst into his bedroom like they live there, which they certainly do not. Craig spends hours upon hours in Token and Clyde's rooms, but he rarely lets them come into his. Token lingers in the doorway while Clyde flops on the bed.

"Dude, come in," Clyde says.

"I'm allergic to the pigs; I'd rather not."

Craig stands up and moves the camera so it can capture all three of them in one frame. He sits on the bed beside Clyde. "Good, that means we can't stay here."

"So then where do we go?"

"My family has people over."

"My dad has his girlfriend over."

"We can go to the movies."

"Craig and I just went like last week."

"We could do to Village Inn."

"I just ate and my dad's cooking is so much better than diner food."

"I'm just saying we'd go for coffee or milkshakes or something."

"Let's go downstairs before you start swelling up," Clyde says and pushes Token out the door. Craig grabs his camera and follows them downstairs, but when he expects them to walk out the front door, they walk over to the couch where Mr. and Mrs. Tucker are watching a movie. Craig freezes as his parents invite the boys to join them. Token drops onto the couch beside Mrs. Tucker and Clyde takes the floor as Savannah walks in from the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn and contorts herself into the armchair. Craig reluctantly sets the camera on an end table where it can see everyone before sitting next to Clyde.

The movie is _It's a Wonderful Life_ , which Craig recognizes instantly. He loves the old classic, which is the only thing keeping him sane when Savannah starts throwing popcorn kernels in hopes of one landing in his mouth. Clyde slumps down until he is laying flat on the floor, mouth wide open and bulging eyes looking at Savannah as she hits his nose and his ear. Craig's parents and Token are watching the movie in pensive silence, which is disturbed when Savannah cheers and Clyde chokes on a piece of popcorn.

"Come on, guys; I'm trying to watch."

"It's not like you haven't seen it before," Craig responds, and when he is met with silence, Craig whips his head around to look at Token. "You've never seen  _It's a Wonderful Life_?"

Mr. Tucker shushes him.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Language," Mrs. Tucker reprimands.

"I just never got around to it."

"It's one of the greatest movies of all time. What else haven't you seen?  _Citizen Kane_ ,  _The Godfather_ ,  _Apocalypse Now_?"

"Dude."

" _West Side Story_?"

"No," Token admits.

"Documentary buffs are not the same as film buffs," Craig muses aloud.

An unpopped kernel hits his cheek and Craig turns to glare at his sister. "Fuck off."

"Craig!" His father yells and the young man slumps back against the couch. Token's legs are in between he and Clyde, so he punches his calf on an awkward angle. They watch the rest of the movie in near peace. Savannah occasionally throws a piece of popcorn at Clyde when he isn't expecting it, and once at Token, who caught it despite her plan to catch him off guard.

Token spit it into his hand and flicked it at Savannah, and she yelped even though he missed her completely.

Mr. Tucker kicked them out fifteen minutes from the end of the movie.

"But Token has never seen  _It's a Wonderful Life_ before," Clyde protests.

"Should have thought of that sooner," Craig's father grunts and the four kids disperse from the room. Standing in a circle in the kitchen, Savannah immediately whips out her phone and begins frantically texting.

"How likely do you think it is that Mom and Dad would let me leave?"

Clyde glances over his shoulder at the adults sitting on the couch watching the end of the movie with dry eyes and blank faces. "Probably pretty damn likely. Where are you going, little Tucker?"

"To a friend's. His family isn't doing some stupid tradition."

"We could drive you."

Savannah gives them a skeptical look.

"Or not," Clyde deflates.

"I need to head home," Token says as he texts. "My parents noticed I was gone. I just told them I'm pooping."

Craig leans back against the counter and watches his best friends leave. They are opening the door when Savannah bolts after them for a ride, leaving Craig alone. He considers his options before slinking back into the living room and sitting in the armchair.

_13:56:32 Dec 26 2012_

"Did your parents visit?"

Tweek's expressions are alert today, brown eyes darting around the room and never really settling in one place for too long. He seems awake and less withdrawn, but they have been sitting across from each other in the armchairs for about fifteen minutes without a word passing between them, though it is difficult to tell time without a phone. "Nngh, yeah, they did. My mom and my dad came. There was a nice brunch and visiting hours were all day. Mom gave me this sweater," Tweek grabs and yanks the center of his blue knit pullover. "Ah, shit, might stretch it. Ugh. She says I'm hiding myself and this is more, ah, flattering."

It isn't, but Craig doesn't tell him that.

"My dad brought me a mug from the store, but the nurses wouldn't let me keep it. Ugh, my dad was unnecessarily offended by the plastic square mugs they give us here."

Craig processes this for a moment. "The store. Your parents own a coffee place."

"Tweak Bros."

"Do they visit you?"

"Ah! Why do you ask? Do I look like I've been abandoned? Oh god."

"No, but there's no one else here when I am."

Tweek's mouth snaps closed and he tucks his legs under him, shifts around, and then puts his feet on the floor. "They're busy. But they were here all day yesterday and the day before. They try to keep a close eye on me but, ugh, they're busy."

"Do they need to keep a close eye on you?"

Tweek shoots Craig a dark look that makes him itch.

The room is decorated with neutral holiday decorations: garland, balls, and snowflakes make up the majority of the items glistening around the room in silvers and golds, with the occasional red, green, and blue mixed in. A few signs read "Happy Holidays" and there is a yellow bowl filled with leftover red and green mints near the nurses' station, which Craig eyes with some interest. South Park is often alack for specific holiday decorations. The few things that exist are the tree in front of City Hall and a thin string of lights running along the lampposts on Main Street. He didn't find the town celebrations to be worthwhile, but he wishes he had his camera to capture this very controlled holiday celebration.

Tweek draws his legs up onto the chair and crosses them. The book he has with him today is sitting on the window sill. Craig glances at it and Tweek picks it up and holds it so Craig can see the cover. " _Mrs. Dalloway_  by Virginia Woolf."

"You like books? You told me you hated lit: too open-ended.."

Tweek twitches and clutches the book to his stomach. "I hated studying it. I like reading it. Woolf is, ugh, really complicated. Nothing is ever straightforward with her, ever! But if I stay calm and just read, the pieces start to fit. I can't always read her. I can't."

He thrusts the book out and Craig takes it from him. The cover is a painting of a woman's lips down to her floral top. The book is worn, with creases in the cover and the spine. It looks like Tweek has read it several times, or at least has tried. He flips through the crinkling pages to find the occasional pencil underline. He flips it over, but doesn't read the back before handing it to Tweek. "Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself," Tweek says.

"What?"

"It's, ah, one of the most famous first lines in literature."

Craig nods. It's been a long time since he read a book.

Tweek places both of his hands on top of the book, looks down at it, opens his mouth, looks at Craig, and promptly shuts his mouth. Craig can't be too irritated by this, after all, because this is the most conversation he has gotten out of Tweek in over a week.

"I have to go," Tweek tells him. "I have, uh, I need to, ugh, meditate."

Craig nods, but says nothing, watching the blonde stand up and walk out. It's the first time Tweek wasn't dragged away by a nurse or asked a nurse to guard him. Craig exhales and gets out of the chair. He leaves the room to find Thomas standing in the hallway with a cup of vanilla pudding. The chubby blonde's eyes brighten when he sees him and he waves excitedly, spoon in his mouth.

"You can't be too excited to see me; you knew I was coming."

"Fuck," Thomas laughs and offers the spoon to Craig. "You got me. You want some pudding?"

"Fuck your vanilla pudding."

Thomas grins. "Merry Christmas to you, too. Was your holiday that terrible?"

"It was fine. My family is boring, and my friends came over, but they just wanted to hang out with my family."

"What's your family like?"

Craig stuffs his pants in his pocket and eyes Thomas, who is wearing a new white hoodie that has a bloody-looking undeterminable symbol on it.

"Mom, dad, annoying little sister."

"That's all you have to tell me?" Craig shrugs, so Thomas continues for him. "Well, it's just me and my mom, so she came yesterday in the afternoon. She would have been there in the morning, but since a lot of her coworkers have kids who are actually home, she decided to take the morning shift. She's awesome. She gave me this sweatshirt, but we have some other gifts to exchange when I get out of here."

"When is that?"

Thomas shrugs again, but he doesn't look bothered by the question. "At least I'm not hearing, like, voices or anything."

"What?"

"Every time Tweek admits in therapy that he hears a voice they add another three days to his stay."

Craig doesn't say anything. This is new information. He looks Thomas over. The boy looks completely nonchalant, shoveling scoops of vanilla pudding in his mouth as he spills someone else's secrets. His pudding is lumpy and Craig scrunches his nose up at the sight.

"What is that?"

"Cheerios," Thomas answers through a mouthful of pudding. "The food gets boring."

"That's disgusting. You got perfectly good Cheerios soggy."

"Milk makes them soggy too. Don't you eat your cereal in milk?"

"I don't want to think about it," Craig objects.

Thomas smiles at him around the spoon and Craig feels naked. He watches as the other boy leads him into the visitors' room and over to a couch and plops onto it, patting the seat next to him as an invitation for Craig to join. His green eyes are narrowed in a way that suggests Thomas thinks Craig is both the coolest and lamest person he knows. Thomas is so at ease around him. Craig reluctantly sits on the couch beside him. Thomas is comfortable in his hoodie, pajama pants and two pairs of the same grip bottom socks every other patient is wearing. Craig wants to be at home in his boxers, cozy in his bed.

"Sure you don't want any pudding?"

"Positive. What's your sweater about, anyway?"

"It's a sigal. It keeps the angels away."

Craig stares at Thomas for a moment. He wonders if everyone here is crazy. Of course they are, he decides. This is a mental hospital. Thomas bursts into laughter.

"Sorry, not really funny I guess.  _Ass. Cock!_ It's from a TV show."

Craig nods, intentionally not asking what show. They sit in silence for a moment and listen to Thomas crunch his slimy cereal. He thinks about Tweek meditating in his room, and the thought of him makes Craig slump back on the couch in frustration.

"Now you look more comfortable."

Craig's eyes slide to the side to burn into Thomas with what he hopes is anger. Thomas just shrugs and starts to lick the inside of his empty yogurt cup.

"Thomas, have some manners. Let me throw that away."

"Shit, sorry," he laughs, pulling the cup away from his face and handing it to the nurse in front of him.

"Craig, right?"

"Sure," Craig tells her.

"I'm sorry, but we can't have guests lingering around after their patient has ended the visiting session."

"It's okay, Nancy, Craig and I are friends."

Her eyebrows raise in surprise.

"Oh," she says, "Okay. I'll add you to Thomas's visitor list so you can see Thomas whenever you want."

"I wouldn't want to take time away from Craig's boyfriend.  _Balls._ "

"I don't see why it would be a problem. Tweek doesn't usually want a full three hours of visitation. You can visit with Thomas when Tweek goes back to his room," Nancy clarifies, directing the entire statement towards Craig.

He fidgets in his seat on the couch. These people know way too much about him already. Apparently, Tweek talks about him in therapy and now he's sitting and sharing information with the chattiest kid in the building. Craig feels sick to his stomach and suddenly misses the quiet simplicity of guinea pigs. Decidedly, Craig stands up, leaving the conversation before it's meant to be over. He marches towards the door and waits with his arms crossed for an attendant to let him out.

_18:22:11 Dec 31 2012_

Craig slowly returns to consciousness. His eyes feel glued shut, and he blindly reaches for the bottle of visine that lives in his bedside table drawer. The liquid allows him to blink his room back into focus. He hears a quiet wheeking from the floor and Craig rolls to the edge of his bed to find Gideon attempting to crawl up the side. He scoops his pet up, frowning at the fact that he left them out last night. Lenora appears from behind the closet door and Craig winces at the thought of what they might have gotten into. He puts both of them back into their cage and closes it. They pigs purr as Craig tosses in a fresh handful of alfalfa.

His phone is dead, so he checks the time on the Canon instead. It takes him a moment to process what day it is. He worked the incoming shipment at PetSteps last night and he celebrated the end of the twelve hour shift with half a bottle of cough syrup and a bag of Jolly Ranchers. He was passed out from six in the morning to six in the evening, apparently. That make this the 31st- the last day of the year.

Craig is mildly irritated that he missed visiting hours two days in a row, mostly because he stormed out the last time he was there and didn't have a chance to warn Tweek or Thomas that he was working the next day. He intended to be there today, but codeine can't be trusted.

His phone lights up after a few moments plugged into the wall. He has twelve text messages waiting. Four are from his sister a few hours before, threatening to take the car if he didn't wake up and drive her. One confirms that she has, in fact, taken the car and won't be home until the morning and that it's his "own fucking fault." One is from his father asking if he's alive, but there is no follow up to the question. Three are from Token, telling him what to wear to the party and what kind of alcohol to bring. Four are from Clyde, asking Craig if he can really believe that another year is over already.

It's a slew of stupid, useless text messages. His sister does whatever the fuck she wants, regardless of what he says; of course he is alive; Token is rich as fuck and does not need Craig to bring booze; and he and Clyde are going to see each other soon where they can engage in small talk in person, which is the only place small talk ever needs to surface.

Craig rolls out of bed and drags his feet to the bathroom down the hall. Before he reaches the door, his father appears at the top of the stairs. They make eye contact and his father grunts.

"Your sister took the car because you didn't answer her texts."

"Yep."

His dad looks him over for a moment and then keeps walking.

Craig shuts the door behind him in the bathroom and turns on the shower.

By the time Craig makes it back to his bedroom, he has more text messages. They are two nearly identical texts from Token and Clyde and therefore pretty suspicious. Both ask where he is and when he will show up. Craig ignores the messages and opens his closet just to stare at the collection of dark neutral-colored clothes. Parties make him feel as though he has to dress his best, but this event seems hollow. He keeps thinking about the last party he went to, Eric and Marjorine's, and the strange feeling when he walked into the basement and saw only Pete, Red, and Firkle.

After flipping through the shirts has has hanging and cataloguing the pants folded on a shelf in his closet, he pulls out his most comfortable jeans, Doc Martens, and a Colorado Springs tourist shirt. It's an acceptable outfit in his eyes, but he grabs a blazer just so Token doesn't put him in one of his own, which may be decorated with sequins or a fur trim. He picks up his phone and texts Clyde, "I need a ride."

He sits at his computer and browses Reddit until he receives a response.

"I'm already at the party."

"I assumed. Savannah took my car so I'm stranded."

"Dude. :("

Craig doesn't say anything, and without a few minutes, receives a second text, "Okay, I'll be there in five minutes."

Craig turns back to Reddit, browsing the front page and barely venturing into the second when his phone lights up. He doesn't pick up the incoming call, but pockets his phone, grabs his camera, throws on the blazer, and walks out of his house to the car stalling against the curb. He stops when he realizes there is someone in the passenger seat. Marjorine looks up at him and waves, bright red lips stretched in a huge smile. Craig climbs in the backseat.

"Dude, I didn't know your sister could drive."

"She can't. She only has her permit. My parents just don't give a shit and they don't think Barbrady does, either."

"No way," Marjorine joins in. "Barbrady totally gave Eric a speeding ticket when we were coming home from a play in Denver last year."

"Neither of you could get out of it?" Clyde asks incredulously, abandoning the conversation with Craig. "Eric is a smooth talker and you have your sexy feminine wiles."

"Well, I don't like to take advantage of the system. It's put in place for a reason, you know."

Craig slumps in the seat and aims his camera at the couple in the front seats.

"I don't understand how you two get along."

Marjorine just smiles.

They park just off of Sierra Madre and walk up the long block, which is lined with cars. The wealthy families are hosting almost all of the New Years parties in town. They pass by people who have already separated themselves from parties and are smoking on the big front lawns of the small mansions. Craig keeps himself composed as they walk into Token's house and run into classmates both older and younger. Craig doesn't recognize all of the people he sees, but he knows that Token has connections all over Park County; he just tries not to think about them. A few people stop Clyde or Marjorine to hug or high five them and arbitrarily ask them how they've been.

To Craig's horror, Clyde and Marjorine take him to the back porch where Token, Kyle, and Eric are waiting for them. He hesitates before following his friend to the low ember fire pit under the heat lamps and takes a seat between Token and Marjorine. Immediately, Token pops out of his chair and offers to bring the newcomers something to drink.

He blinks and slowly spins the camera, capturing Marjorine beside him, then Clyde, then Cartman, then Kyle, then Token's empty seat. This is not the ideal group of people to be with, even though his best friends are involved. He hates both Kyle and Cartman more than anyone else he has ever met. Marjorine is okay-ish. Not ideal. The back door slides open and Craig turns his head, about help Token carry drinks, but Wendy and Nichole are there instead and, as though with the sole intention of making Craig's life worse, take the vacant seats in the circle. He is about fifteen minutes into this party and it's already torture.

Token gives him something strong. When Craig asks what it is, Token just smiles. "It's alcoholic."

That's good enough. Craig sips in large mouthfuls, swallowing as much as he can while conversation bubbles around him. Token has on his sly and charming smile as he talks to Nichole and Wendy, who look mostly unaffected. Craig keeps the camera on Token's futile subtleties. They're talking about college, which isn't all that alluring in the first place. Token tells them about his dorm and Nichole and Wendy tell him about art history, which they both took together as a core class but now Nichole wants to pursue.

"How is Aubrey?" Nichole asks and Token frowns, all attempts at the flirting game immediately forgotten at the mention of his ex.

Wendy tells him she doesn't want to talk about her love life at all because it's all a big confusing mess. Nichole says she has a few vague interests, but nothing serious. Craig doesn't notice right away when Token asks Craig about his love life.

When he does notice, he frowns and says, "No."

They drop the subject when Nichole follows up by telling them about someone adorable she sat next to on the plane ride home from NYU.

Craig tunes out the conversation for a while instead letting his camera catch it. He doesn't need the meaningless dribble. Token will edit in anything he thinks is useful, but if Craig's only job is capturing the moments as they happen, then he doesn't need to be listening to the bullshit around him.

He balances the camera on one knee and scans through Reddit for a while before switching to Facebook, which he typically hates but has been drawn to lately. It feels dead lately, but he keeps checking as though something new and interesting will happen when it so obviously will not. There is nothing posted on his page, there are no new messages in his inbox, and his feed is completely lacking of anything interesting and is overrun with ads and Facebook-brand friends sharing viral videos and biased articles. He waits as long as he can stand, browsing through his awful feed, before clicking on Tweek's page.

Someone named Jane left him a link to a YouTube video of a cat in a box. Heidi Turner wrote, "Miss you! Hope you can come to the NYE shindig! xo" Craig feels strangely smug knowing that she is devoid of Tweek on New Year's Eve, just as he is. Other than that, there is nothing from Tweek himself. The last status or post of whatever they call them now is from three weeks ago. Craig assumes Tweek has no access to the internet or anything like that when in the hospital. It's kind of depressing. Craig doesn't know what he would do with himself if he were there without access to the internet.

"Let me get some more chairs," Token insists, taking another swig of his beer before setting it down and jogging towards a storage shed in the back. "I'll help!" Clyde offers, disappearing into the dark after him. Craig lifts his eyes to reluctantly find out who else has arrived. Kenny takes Token's now empty seat beside Wendy and Stan stands behind her. Gary receives a hug from Marjorine and Craig watches him spin her around before setting her back on the ground. There isn't anything left for Craig to say, he's livid and extremely uncomfortable.

When Token returns, everyone shifts their chairs around to make space for three more seats. Clyde is carrying three pieces of firewood in his thick arms. After arranging the wood in the fire pit before them, Token takes Craig's drink out of his hands. He pours the remains over the logs and drops a match into the pit. After making sure Token sees his middle finger, Craig half-heartedly checks that his camera is pointed towards the growing crowd. The quantity of people is causing them to all move further from the blazing fire pit at the center of the group, and like one many-limbed beast, the young adults of South Park lean forward as a unit, hands extended toward the flame.

Craig's old classmates are socializing in a way he never learned how. He watches Kenny with mild irritation. When is the drug dealer going to disappear into a guest bedroom? It doesn't seem like it's going to be any time soon, as Kenny is deep in conversation with Nichole, whose arms are moving in sweeping arcs as she explains something Craig cares nothing about. Of course, Tweek isn't here anyway, so Craig's evening in the users' room will mostly involve using whatever drug will supply him the fastest route to unconsciousness. He resents Token for using his drink as lighter fuel. He resents himself for being too anti-social to walk into the kitchen for another. He wonders how long he can go without saying anything before Clyde calls him out on his introversion. Craig wishes Thomas was here force him into conversation.

"So, Clyde, Marjorine, I heard you two won beer pong last week," Wendy calls across the fire to her friends. "Pretty good for the clumsiest couple in South Park."

The playful jab triggers a chorus of challenging calls from the group. Craig looks through the viewfinder of his Canon as he zooms in on the exchange. Their faces flicker orange and yellow in the light as Clyde and Marjorine smile at each other and then the crowd.

"A challenge then!" Marjorine giggles, her hand falling to her boyfriend's thigh in anticipation.

"Why don't we resume the summer's tournament, then! If I recall correctly, Marjie and me are only one game behind Team Marshaburger."

Just minutes after all that chair shuffling and fire lighting and the crowd is breaking apart to follow the two opposing teams as they head indoors. Craig doesn't understand all the formalities. If social events are truly just opportunities to compete, let's just avoid the smiles and hugs to begin with.

The camera leads as Craig follows the crowd inside. When he arrives in the Black's formal dining room, he sees the space has been converted into a literal beer pong court. The twenty-four seater cherry wood table has been covered with a green table cloth with the foul lines and cup placements screen printed on. There is a white board leaning up against what is normally a large painting of the Colorado Rockies and the evening's scores and a few dicks are already scribbled onto it. Craig finds a space to stand between the stacks of blue and red solo cups and the chilled keg of Stella Artois. From here, he is able to fit the entire room into the frame and he spends a few moments adjusting the settings on his camera to accommodate the difference in light. He is interrupted by Token pushing a replacement drink into his hand and Craig immediately starts to down the beverage as his best friend leans on the wall beside him.

The match between Stan and Wendy and Clyde and Marjorine is heated. There is laughter, singing and a lot of sloshing beer. Stan and Wendy are playing like they practiced, and the opposing team is quickly becoming inebriated. Craig is busy staring at Tumblr on his phone but despite that, Clyde is frequently turning around to lean on Craig while he commiserates about his lack of aim. "Be my wingman," Clyde begs. "If I take any more drinks I'll be too drunk to throw."

"No helping!" Stan calls out from the other side of the living room and Clyde frowns at Craig. Token takes Craig empty cup and replaces with a full one. Craig lifts it slowly to his mouth and pockets his phone.

He knows what his best friends are doing. They're scared he's going to bail on the party because Tweek isn't here. They're mostly correct. The longer the night goes on, the more restless Craig becomes. Kenny is uncharacteristically above ground, lingering around the beer pong game and occasionally disappearing for a few minutes. Whenever he's gone for long enough that Craig feels his hopes rising, the blond appears again, hands fussing with the orange hoodie tied around his waist like a child. Craig tries for eye contact but Kenny won't give him what he wants.

No drugs. No Tweek. There is no reason to be here.

Craig pulls his phone out of his pocket and tries to keep his camera hand steady as he browses Reddit. There is nothing too new except a few uninteresting posts on subreddits he doesn't like very much anyway. He trades his phone for the red solo cup sitting on the table beside him and like a frog snatching a fly, Token's hand whips out and grabs his phone. Craig glares at him as he takes a few gulps of his drink. His head swirls with alcohol and frustration. He knows what Token is going to do next.

"Come on, let's climb the hill."

Craig cannot say no. Token has his phone: the one thing Craig won't leave there without is being held as collateral. Clyde and Marjorine have lost the game, but he is smiling anyway as he kisses Marjorine and they part ways. The tall blonde walks off with Kenny, Wendy and Stan. Clyde moves towards Token and Craig and throws his arms around the both of them. They planned this. He's too drunk at this point to protest.

Token drags him upstairs and makes Craig change his black leather jacket for a brighter, olive green coat, spewing shit about the camera and lighting.

"Should I change?!" Clyde asks in a panic.

Token says no, but Clyde shrugs out of his brown coat and into a burgundy letterman jacket anyway.

Craig smokes a cigarette as they walk through a snowed path in Token's backyard. The hill is simply the bottom of a mountain, where it ends at the edge of Token's property. When they were young, Mr. Black hung rope ladders so the boys could climb up, and to this day, they seek out the reclusive view whenever they need to get away.

They all climb one handed, Token holding the camera, Clyde a six pack of Blue Moon and Craig, his cigarette. The cold wooden rungs of the ladders make them all regret not wearing gloves.

It's a ten minute climb to their hideout, a hollowed out side of the hill that the three boys created by banging it with spades and sharp rocks. Years of work created a cave their parents knew nothing of. It's the first place they smoked pot. It's the place where Clyde lost his virginity to his baby sitter, a woman nearly twice his age. It's the place where Token would hide the hateful and violent poems he wrote in his youth. It's a place that Craig knows well, but has never really understood. As they ascend into this space, South Park comes into view in the form of twinkling lights and a biting breeze.

The cave always feels smaller than it did when they were kids, but it's still an impressive space There is an old oriental rug laying on the floor, and tucked in the back is a bookshelf they found on the side of the street a few years ago. Clyde finds an oil lamp there and lights it, and setting it on the ground as they huddle around it and warm their fingers. The Canon takes its place, pointing towards them as the trio gets settled into old dusty bean bag chairs and Token passes around amber bottles of beer. Craig's palms itch with the desire to stare at his phone, but he knows there won't be anything interesting on it, so he allows it to remain in Token's pocket.

He's drunk enough to feel a little queasy, but it doesn't stop Craig from working on the bottle his buddy handed him.

Nearly two hours pass before Clyde grunts from his bean bag chair and says, "it's nearly midnight. We should head back to the house."

Craig rubs his eyes, kicking an empty beer bottle over with the toe of his boot. "I thought 2013 was going to be my year, finally,  _my_  year. This isn't exactly how I expected it to begin."

Clyde's hand hits a single thump on Craig's shoulder and Token doesn't make eye contact, but kicks over one of his beer bottles as well in a symbol of solidarity. Token hands him his phone, and Craig spins it in his hands a couple times before tucking it into his coat. Silently, the boys rise and descend the hill.

Back inside the house, cheers and echoes of vocal "clinks" mark the end of 2012. While the partygoers are occupied celebrating the beginning of another year with closed eyes and eager mouths, Craig slips out the front door and slides a cigarette between his lips.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient and sticking with us you guys! We are back and steadily writing :) The next update won't be an 8 month wait!

_14:34:21 Jan 2 2013_

When Craig gives his name at the front desk of the Children's Therapy Center, the woman behind the desk looks him over skeptically. With the typical lack of urgency of the hospital staff, she checks the list, consults the computer, and looks back to Craig, who has taken to raking his bitten nails over the laminated desk surface. "Mr. Wilkinson is unavailable, but Mr. Tweak can meet with you."

"Unavailable," Craig repeats in a deadpan.

The front desk attendant nods and turns her attention back to the computer as she asks for the items he isn't allowed to bring in. He hands over his keys. He doesn't move away, but continues to watch her while she stores his belongings. He sees this same woman every day that he's here. How old can she possibly be? No more than two or three years older than himself. He recalls mopping up the seven foot stretch of diarrhea a dog left in his store yesterday and he wonders how much she gets paid to sit on her ass.

"A nurse is on the way to let you in."

"Thomas is unavailable," he repeats, shaking his head clear of resentment and trying to clarify the situation.

"Yes."

"What does that mean?"

She glances at the computer. Sighing through her nose, she leans forward, eyes widening, like this is a speech she has given many times, without once receiving a good reaction. Still, she tries to deliver it as pleasantly as possible. "I can't disclose that, it's not only our policy, but it's illegal. I  _can_  tell you," She says with a small, fake smile, "that it's temporary and that it doesn't necessarily mean anything bad."

Craig turns away when a nurse appears through the doors and follows him without acknowledging the woman behind the desk. He peers in the windows of the few doors on the way to the common room, wondering where the fuck Thomas is. The nurse steps inside and the heavy door closes behind him. There are a few kids with their parents and even one with a friend, but no Tweek or Thomas. Standing alone in the middle of the room heightens Craig's awareness of how uncomfortably tall he is. He would have guessed a hospital like this would have taller ceilings, but the fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling's low, yellowing tiles make Craig feel stale and claustrophobic. The two armchairs by the window are empty. He starts walking toward them when the door jumps open behind him to reveal Tweek, looking a little frazzled but pleasant and welcoming all the same.

Craig can feel the tension leave his shoulders at the familiar sight of the blonde. He feels a quick burst in his chest - a fragment of what he felt at the Thanksgiving party - and he thinks he may be smiling a little. The pressing loneliness from the night before has been erased. Tweek approaches, almost fluidly, his eyes on Craig. But then he breaks eye contact, jerks an arm toward the seats by the window, and the illusion of healthy love shatters in the back of Craig's mind. He steels himself and follows Tweek to the chairs. They sit across from each other.

Tweek is mostly looking at him, punctuated by the occasional glance behind Craig before his amber eyes shift back into focus.

"Happy New Year," Craig says, because he thinks Thomas would say that to him with that strange knowing smile. It doesn't sound as clever when he says it. It sounds desperate and sarcastic. He can't communicate as fluidly as Thomas can.

Tweek's hands, perched in his lap, flinch hard at the sound of Craig's voice. "What?"

It's comforting to know that it sounded as stupid to Tweek as it did to Craig.

"Nothing. How are you?"

"Gah! Fine!"

After a moment of tense silence, Craig says, "I'm fine too, thanks."

Tweek shoots him a look that Craig doesn't bother responding to. The guy is too unpredictable, too scattered. He finds himself looking around for a distraction, but nothing jumps out at him. It's the same visiting room he's been in before, the same bunch of vaguely familiar background faces. The appeal of the sad faces in the hospital work off quickly and he no longer resents having to leave his camera in the car.

"I'm going home tomorrow."

Craig tears his gaze away from a young girl playing checkers with her bored parents to look at Tweek, whose face is now turned away from  _him_ , studying the same girl that Craig was watching moments before. He is scratching his nails over the itchy pink lines in his wrist caused by the plastic band that lists his name and the date he was dumped in the hospital. Tweek is not acting as though he had spoken up, but his wavering voice is unmistakable to Craig.

"For good?"

"For, uh, now."

Craig nods. Those words could mean a thousand things, none of which he can begin to understand.

A lot of things about Tweek don't make sense. He can live with that. He won't ever understand him, not fully, but he'll observe. He's watched plenty of foreign movies without really reading the subtitles, and he can usually keep up with what's going on. His situation with Tweek shouldn't be too different. Thomas throws private information at him unknowingly; he's a character whose purpose Craig cannot quite determine yet. He flits between eating up the information he has to offer and wanting to tell Thomas to shut up. He glances around the visiting room hopefully, but Thomas is nowhere to be found.

He doesn't know what to talk to Tweek about anymore; all they have are hazy parties and two-cent gossip. It felt like so much more at the time. He could swear there was more. But maybe that's all they've ever had and now they have rehab and the consequent inability to connect.

He thinks about asking if Tweek is looking forward to leaving this claustrophobic shithole, but decides against it when it occurs to him that he won't have to drive out here anymore and tiptoe through conversations with this damaged version of his friend. They can hang out at the diner, or at Tweak Bros., or at a party. Things can go back to normal, whatever that may be, and the thought excites him. Craig feels anxious to leave and eager to never return to the hospital. He leans forward and asks, "So we can hang out soon?"

"Yeah."

Craig sighs through his nose and stands up.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Tweek."

It isn't until he is sneaking a right turn through a red light near his house that he realizes that was his last chance to see Thomas. He doesn't turn the car around.

_14:12:03 Jan 3 2013_

The door to City Wok is almost frozen shut and Craig has to balance the Canon on his feet so it doesn't touch the snow as he shoves the door open with both hands. The owner of the restaurant shouts a protest in his direction and Craig flips him off as he scans the establishment for Tweek.

He sits down across from Tweek, who looks agitated in his seat.

"What's wrong with  _you_?"

"Gah! You're late!"

"What time was I supposed to be here?" Craig asks, checking the time on his phone.

"Two O' Clock!"

"It's 2:12," Craig explains, his voice bland with apathy.

"Well, it's a long time to sit here! I was here at like, ugh, 1:45! I thought you weren't coming!"

Craig sets his forehead in his hands and presses the heel of his hand hard against his eyes. He watches the tiny explosions of lights move away from the pressure on his eyelids. This isn't the reunion he'd been hoping for.

"You're sort of… off. Aren't you on like… meds or something?" he asks, his eyes still shut.

"Gah! Yes! But they're going to take some time to stabilize. They may still change them again. They don't fucking know what they're doing."

"You can't sit here unless you a customer of City Wok!" the owner screams in their direction. Craig opens his eyes and sighs audibly. He and Tweek both rise from their seat and move towards the counter to place their orders.

Tweek looks better than he did in the hospital. Craig isn't sure if it's because he isn't seeing Tweek in the same sweaters and lounge pants that the boy wore every time he visited, or if it's just easier to process attraction outside of that place's sterile claustrophobia. Tweek stutters through his order, and Craig indulges himself in letting his eyes slide over the other man: his face and jaw, down to his neck and collarbone, the latter exposed as a result of his knitted pullover's stretched neckline. He lifts the camera to point it at Tweek, who shrinks away from its gaze sharply to pay for his food.

"Ohh, you film commercial for City Wok!"

"No," Craig answers.

As they return to their seats, Tweek admits that he did not miss Craig's camera.

"Well, it missed you."

Tweek blushes, readjusting himself in his seat so that he's sitting on one of his socked feet, the birkenstock left empty on the floor.

"What time did you get home yesterday?"

"Around noon. They wanted me to do one last group therapy session before my parents came and got me."

"Were you happy to see them?"

"Of course I was. They're my parents."

"You don't blame them for throwing you in there?"

"I got myself in there, Craig."

"Spoken like a true twelve stepper."

Tweek blows air through loose lips in frustration, fussing his food in circles with his fork.

"So," Craig says through a mouthful of rice. "Since you're actually sort of speaking to me now, are you going to tell me why the fuck you were in the hospital?"

"Agh! I told you! It was rehab. My parents found out I was using drugs."

"They don't just put drug addicts on drugs without something else going on," Craig probes.

Tweek stares at Craig for a few moments, only giving the camera one nervous glance when Craig adjusts it to make sure it's viewing both men from its adjacent seat.

"I'm schizoaffective."

"You're schizophrenic?"

"Schizoaffective. They're different."

Craig nods, his eyes falling from Tweek's face to his plate of beef and broccoli. He eats a few bites, trying to piece together the information Tweek is giving him with the things Thomas has let slip over the two weeks.

"We can talk more about it later…" Tweek says softly from the end of the table. "Just not here. Not at City Wok. Ugh, can't we just enjoy our lunch?"

"Enjoying their lunch" seems to consist of awkward silence. Craig says nothing, and Tweek doesn't try to make him speak. Craig can't even seem to recall what they used to talk about. It's only been two weeks, but he feels like he and Tweek have lost the rapport they'd built up since November. With no conversation to distract him, Craig finds his mind drifting to Thomas. He can imagine Thomas in the hospital's joke of a "family room", sitting on the couch, staring at the door and wondering if Craig is going to visit. He wonders why it's so much easier to talk to Thomas, someone he hardly knows, than to Tweek, the guy he's supposed to be dating. He feels a deep, unplaced resentment.

Craig pulls his phone out of his pocket. The screen lights up to facebook, where the conversation with Tweek about meeting up for lunch is still open. He taps his finger on the search bar and types "Thomas Wilkinson."

He finds him immediately and momentarily considers requesting his friendship, but opts not to since he knows Thomas doesn't have access to a computer anyway. Craig tries to look through his photos but they are locked. The only photo he can see is his profile picture: a well lit photo of Thomas and a giant stupid fucking gross-looking poodle. Thomas looks happy in the picture, his freckles more noticeable in the daylight than they are under the medical fluorescent lighting he is used to seeing him under. Thomas looks good. He looks better out of the hospital than he does when he's in it. Craig decides he doesn't want to visit the ticking boy in that hellhole again, but he's suddenly aware that he misses their friendship.

"Balls!"

Craig breathes in sharply and looks up at the man in front of him. Tweek is standing, frantically trying to wipe soy sauce off of his jeans, but really just wiping it in. Craig breathes out slowly, slouching back in his seat.

"Anyway," Craig starts, as if they're picking up from a small lull in an otherwise engaging conversation. "There's a party tomorrow night at Leroy's house. Go with me?"

"Uh.." Tweek begins. He stops dabbing at his pants with the napkin and stares at him wide-eyed. Craig watches while the other man searches for the word. "Sure."

_20:01:56 Jan 3 2013_

Craig walks to Leroy's house; he hasn't bothered making plans to pick up Tweek since the strange disaster of letting Tweek drive him to Denver. He thinks he wants his relationship with Tweek to pick back up, but he finds it difficult to even face him and the possibility of another long silence sitting in each other's company.

He bumps into Nichole at the door, who's coming out just as he's going in. She taps her arms around him, kisses his cheek with her painted purple lips, and spins away. He stares after her, eyes and lens following her sway down the walkway. He doesn't remember consenting to being friends with Token and Clyde's friends. He warns himself to make sure he doesn't give off the wrong signals tonight.

Thankfully, he isn't accosted by Clyde, Token, or any of their douchey friends before he hits the back porch, where Tweek, Kenny, Red, and Milly sit talking in the freezing night air, huddled close together. Everyone is looking at a very uncomfortable Tweek.

Craig briskly approaches and stands over them. The hushed chatter stops and they all look up at Craig. He takes a step back. "What've you got?"

Kenny pats his pockets, "Just a little bit of Mary Jane tonight."

Red interrupts before Craig can say anything smart, "This is  _Leroy's_  house. Everyone is just sitting around. You'll make an ass of yourself if you take X."

"Fucking whatever," Craig grumbles and turns back into the house.

There is a very limited amount of drinks on the kitchen counter. Cheap vodka, two empty six packs of beer, and a mostly consumed jug of cranberry juice. With a minimal amount of hope, Craig opens the refrigerator to find only a pitcher of iced tea and a Britta water filter. He grabs an individual package of string cheese and turns around to find himself face-to-gaunt-face with Tweek.

"What's that?"

"String cheese."

Tweek reaches past him and grabs the pitcher of iced tea, pouring himself a glass without looking at Craig. Craig leans against the fridge and watches him silently. Jeans and a worn t-shirt, sneakers instead of birkenstocks: he probably snuck out.

Tweek leans against the island counter and they find themselves staring at each other from just a few feet away. It feels a lot like sitting in the visitor's room at the hospital. Despite the freedom, the drinks on the counter behind Tweek, and being in a room of chattering people they both know, tonight feels like they are back in the hospital and Tweek is giving him his blank stare.

Craig tries not to regret making this suggestion. When it comes down to it, he has to know if whatever happened between he and Tweek is salvageable. He can tolerate some insanity for the sake of whatever connection he felt earlier. There was something there, he was pretty sure of it, but time has twisted his memory, and he knows that. Time makes it difficult to see through the bias and remember what he felt when he was kissing Tweek in Clyde's laundry room. Feelings seem worthless when thoughts get in the way, or maybe thoughts are worthless when feelings get in the way. He can't tell.

It could be that the only way to feel, or to understand feeling, is to impair his thinking.

With a decisive push off the fridge, Craig grabs himself something alcoholic. He can feel Tweek watch him pour a glass of vodka and cranberry juice. He can feel Tweek's amber eyes on him, on the drink. It feels dirty. It feels like hinting at a terrible secret to be drinking in front of poor, sober Tweek, whatever Tweek's vice may be. He turns back around and meets a shaky gaze, holding eye contact over the glass as he sips his poison.

"What's wrong with you?" Tweek asks, voice low and wavering.

Craig says nothing.

Not too far away, the kitchen erupts with the booming laughter of several old classmates. Lola stumbles over to the counter and reaches behind Craig to put more vodka into her drink. She doesn't acknowledge either of them and they don't acknowledge her. This is more like what Craig expected life after high school to be like. He doesn't watch her walk away.

Craig slowly downs the rest of his drink. He can tell that Tweek trying not to watch him, darting his eyes everywhere. It feels like deja vu, a strange combination of life before and during the hospital, blended together and trying to tell him that this will never work. Craig spent every day of those two weeks doing almost exactly what he had done before he was reintroduced to Tweek at the Thanksgiving party. The only difference was the thirty or so minutes he would spend at the hospital staring at the boy he thought he might have felt something for.

His passion was dying. The little he had left was slipping. Craig feels slightly fulfilled at the same time that he feels barren. He tried caring for something and he got shot down.

"I was thinking, ah," Tweek says quietly, "about, uh, places."

Craig doesn't say anything. He doesn't know how to respond to something so fucking vague. Tweek never says anything. Not a single thing. He's a waste of time. Craig considered Tweek something to work for and now that idea is gone and he is thinking about other things, other people, himself. Craig swallows the rest of his beverage and pushes off the counter. "I think it's time for me to bolt."

He spares a glance in Tweek's direction and catches a glimpse of sadness and the desire to ask him to wait, please.

He pauses just long enough for Tweek to gather the courage to step away from the counter and stand in front of him. Despite the other people in the room who are buzzed at worst, Tweek stands two feet from him, looking nervous but determined. Craig looks him over again and sees Tweek in his sneakers. He snuck out to see Craig. "Do you want something to drink?" Craig asks, agitated and ready to blow off a terrible party in a terrible fucking town.

Tweek ignores the question. "Chicago."

Craig stops.

"Do you want to go?"

"Now?"

"Gah! No! Just. Eventually."

Craig rolls the idea over in his mind, on his tongue. "Chicago," He says. The word tastes like it did before the hospital, before Craig had to consider a change of heart. The word is warm, familiar, and exhilarating. He feels almost like he did standing in Clyde's laundry room with the wet taste of someone else in his mouth, high and warm and always wanting to pull in closer, closer,  _closer_. He remembers the excitement that shot through him when Tweek first whispered the word to him. Chicago.

"With you?" Craig asks for clarification, even though he knows the answer. He watches Tweek over the rim of his solo cup.

"With me," Tweek confirms.

There is an intentional silence while Craig makes sure the camera is pointed towards the two of them. He takes a step towards Tweek, feeling the other's body heat as he enters his personal space. He know they are standing in plain view for all their old classmates to see them standing close together, but Craig just nods and tells him, "yeah."

Craig offers to walk Tweek home. While they barely say anything the whole freezing walk to Tweek's house, Craig doesn't mind.

_02:02:03 Jan 5 2013_

Craig walks quietly down the hallway, past his parents' bedroom, past his sister's bedroom, past the small bathroom the four of them share. He winces as every stair creaks, threatening to give out beneath his weight. He's been wildly successful lately in avoiding his family, and any questions about why he's been out of the house so much more lately. He'd greatly appreciate if his rundown house wouldn't ruin that for him now.

He arrived home from work at eleven. Filmore had no helpful information about any parties and Tweek has been silent on facebook. Friday night finds Craig with nothing better to do than google "Chicago" and eat Hot Pockets in bed. He rounds the corner into the kitchen and hushes Gideon, who is chirping from his shoulder, as he flips on the lights.

"Hey."

"Fuck!" Craig whispers harshly. "You scared me."

Savannah is sitting fully dressed at the kitchen table, feet propped up on the edge, staring at her phone in her lap.

"What are you doing up?" he asks his little sister.

"Nothing interesting," Savannah bites back and Craig feels sudden embarrassment that his sister is able to sense his probing for parties. "I'm waiting to hear back from Ike. He went on a date, or something, a while ago. He won't answer my calls, but I don't want to call his brother because we all know what an uptight prick he can be. Wow, why am I telling you this?"

Craig shrugs, setting Gideon on the kitchen table while he opens the fridge. He grabs a piece of celery from the drawer and tosses it to Savannah, who trades it for her phone and begins to feed the guinea pig.

"Mom and dad are going to think it's pretty shady if they catch you fully dressed in the kitchen at 2 am."

Savannah says nothing.

" _Are you on drugs?_ " Craig mimics their dad.

"Are  _you_?" Savannah spits, throwing a dark glare at her older brother before kicking the chair back and leaving the kitchen. Gideon squeals when Craig grabs him from where he was left unattended. He sighs, turns back to the fridge, and grabs an orange soda.

Back in his room, Craig can hear his sister's muffled voice talking on the phone through their shared wall. He plugs his headphones into his laptop and turns on the same playlist he always uses to drown out the manufactured moans of gay porn. Clyde made him this mixtape for his birthday one year, spewing some bullshit like: "Listen to the lyrics, man. Listen to them."

He doesn't listen to the lyrics. He sets Gideon and Lenora on the floor and ditches his boxers, leaving his naked tattooed body flopped over the unmade blankets. One hand lazily strokes his cock as the other scrolls past thumbnail after thumbnail of porn, unable to settle on a video he wants. Finally, he tries a few, but after failing to get hard he slams his computer shut in frustration. The music stops.

That's when he is struck by an idea. His eyes dart shamefully to where the camera has been observing him from its nighttime location on his desk. For a moment, the blinking red light seems to judge him before Craig remembers that it's a fucking machine. He grabs his phone, opens facebook, and types the name his phone has already memorized: Thomas Wilkinson.

He cums with his headphones still on, playing nothing but the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears as he rolls onto his back and wipes his phone screen with his boxers. He throws them at the camera and successfully blinds it. Sleep finds him quickly.

_14:52:33 Jan 7 2013_

Token and Kyle sit side by side at Token's desk, sharing a plate of pizza bagels and a bowl of chex mix. They watch Craig's footage from Firkle's party the previous night on full screen, Kyle's arms folded above his head, Token's hands furiously scribbling away at his worn yellow pad of paper.

"Three days," Kyle sighs in enthusiastic disbelief. "That's the shortest amount of time Tweek's stayed sober after leaving rehab."

"How do you know that?" Token asks, writing down the number in his notes anyway.

"I like numbers," Kyle shrugs.

"And gossip."

"Look who's talking!" Kyle retorts.

They fall silent for a moment, watching as Craig takes Tweek's mostly empty beer and finishes the last swig himself. He hands the blonde a new bottle, popping the lid off with the opener that hangs from his belt loop like a dog tag, announcing his allegiance to intoxication.

"What is it about the promise of running away that makes Craig such a fucking gentleman?"

"You don't have the best reference point for gentlemen, Kyle."

Kyle's protest comes in the form of his chair squeaking in rhythm with his suddenly restless left foot.

"I'm just saying," Kyle clarifies. "No one looks more suave taking your sobriety than Craig Tucker. He's like a tall, drunk Don Quixote."

"With a frantic desire to run away."

"Everyone wants to run away from South Park," Kyle laughs, reaching over Token to grab another pizza bagel.

"Uh-uh, not me," Token contradicts. "South Park is where the story is. Ain't nothing gonna happen in Chicago."

The friends fall silent. Kyle's eyes shift between his phone and the computer screen, and Token leans his face in his hands as he listens to shallow conversation between Craig and Tweek. They're gossiping about old friends and acquaintances, but Token doesn't care. This movie stopped being about the residents of South Park a long time ago.

"How behind are you on homework?" Kyle asks, observing the stack of books he knows belongs to Token's to-do pile.

"Doesn't matter," Token tells him, tapping his pencil against the edge of the desk. Kyle seems to be observing his own pile of class work waiting for him back at his own desk, but Token knows he's doing so only to act as if he's also dangerously behind on his school work.

Craig and Tweek leave the kitchen after yet another beer. As they walk through the house party to the basement, the camera is swinging loosely at Craig's side, suggesting Token's cameraman is too drunk to hold it steady. It finds a haphazard seat on what is probably an armchair or coffee table pushed to the edges of the room. The frame is turned towards the dance floor, but it is too low, and only captures Tweek and Craig from the waist down as they fall together.

Kyle tries not to react to the sight of Tweek and Craig dancing. It begins pretty casually with some space between them and some awkward-looking dance moves, but he winces when they draw closer together. He doesn't have any particular feelings about Tweek, but he hates Craig and is certain that any person trying to date him has a victim complex. Kyle looks away and Token watches the screen.

_23:41:44 Jan 9 2013_

"How did you get here?" Craig asks, not looking at Tweek as he locks the backdoor to Petsteps.

"I walked."

"It's freezing out," Craig says, turning around to face the shorter boy. He is in his typical outfit, oversized jacket making him look smaller than he is. His socked toes stick out of damp birkenstocks. He is shaking one of his feet, maybe because he's cold, maybe because he's nervous.

"Yes," Tweek confirms.

"My car takes a while to heat up," Craig warns.

"I, uh, know another way we can keep warm," Tweek suggests. From his peripheral vision, Craig can see Tweek's amber eyes locked on his face, trying to read his expression. When he turns around, he tries his hardest not to react, pulling his camera up to his face and looking down at Tweek through the viewfinder. They stand there for just a moment before Craig digs his car keys out of his pocket and they move towards his car together.

Craig sinks into the driver's seat, propping the Canon on the dash in its usual seat. He reaches to close the door when Tweek's voice cracks from the back seat.

"No, no! Come sit back here."

Craig looks Tweek's reflection in the lens of his camera. In reality, he shouldn't be so reluctant; Tweek is his ideal hookup. He's aggressive enough to make the moves so Craig can more or less follow his lead and they're sort of dating now, he guesses, which means Tweek isn't going to gossip about him. He's hot. His hair is a scruffy inch long and Craig can imagine running his fingers through it with Tweek's head in his lap. His breath materializes in the cold air of the car, floating above Craig's head as he turns the camera to fit the back seat into the frame.

The heat blasting from the front seat is hardly reaching the back, so Craig does take solace in the heat of Tweek's body and scoots close to him as he pulls the door shut. He looks outside at the snow falling around the car and he wonders how many times he'll skid off the curbless South Park roads before he makes it home. Tweek's hands lay lightly on his thighs and Craig turns to look at him. He's grateful for when Tweek's mouth suddenly lands on his, because he was starting to think too much about childhood friends and making out in the backseat of a filthy car in the parking lot of his part-time job.

Tweek is a good kisser. Craig hasn't had much experience to compare this with, but Tweek's tongue is drawing circles on his and it's making Craig's mind feel pleasantly distant. His body is speaking instead, and when he feels Tweek pushing back on his shoulders, Craig lets him. Their mouths fall apart and Craig has to contort his long legs around Tweek's body, but when they're done moving, Tweek is kneeling between his thighs and Craig is propped up on his elbows, staring across the seat as the other man watches him. Tweek's face is colored orange by the solitary street lamp illuminating the interior of the car. He licks his lips and Craig stammers out, "Wanna get high?"

"Gah! What?"

Craig sits up, reaching for the dashboard and manipulating his hand into the glovebox. "I bought some Ritalin off Kenny when he came in to buy dog food for that fat fuck they call a dog."

Tweek seems to laugh to himself, hands pulling away from Craig's body as the other sits up and throws a few pills back. He offers the bag to Tweek, who shakes his head no.

"I stopped taking Ritalin when I was twelve."

"Suit yourself," Craig shrugs, leaning back against the window while he waits for the drugs to kick in.

"Gah! Listen," Tweek starts, fingers picking at pills on his knit sweater. "I need to ask you something."

"Uh, sure, shoot."

"I don't like having to sneak out to see you. If you, uh would agree to… god… meet my parents? They'd uh, probably let us hang out during the day and I wouldn't have to sneak out at night anymore."

"You want me to meet your parents?"

"Ugh, yes. Shit! As a friend, just a friend. Just... come over for dinner, shake their hands, and then we're golden."

Craig sighs and he feels the tension leave his body. The car is finally starting to feel warm and his limbs are relaxing. He feels as if his body is melting into the shape of the backseat, and Craig eventually nods. He reaches forward for Tweek and catches a flash of the other boy's smile before they kiss again.

Tweek's mouth trails to his ear and Craig turns his head to the side and shuts his eyes as Tweek's hand skates down his chest and stomach to rest over his erection through his jeans. "You know I'm not going to tell anyone, right Craig?"

He feels it more than he hears it, and Craig isn't sure to thank Tweek or Kenny, but he presses his hips up into the contact and presses his tongue back into Tweek's mouth as Tweek's hand creeps below his is good. This is exactly how it's supposed to happen, Craig thinks. Stoned and sprawled out in the back of his car. This is an artistic enough of a place for his first hand job.

Craig surprises himself by moaning into Tweek's mouth, never having elicited such a noise from himself before. The effects of the pills are making Craig feel electric and Tweek's hand on his cock causes his body to surge in response. Tweek takes Craig's lower lip between his and sucks lightly before pulling away. Craig's head is could have never imagined the look on Tweek's face when the other boy pulls his swollen flesh out of his boxers. Craig is so hard, and Tweek looks hungry.

The pleasant ache in his groin intensifies when Tweek's hand properly encircles him. It is better than porn, Craig confirms. Seeing someone else's hand pumping your cock is definitely more erotic. Tweek's mouth is on his again and their body heat is quickly filling the small car. Craig is thankful for the pills he swallowed as the pressure in his body swirls in his pelvis, building fast. He has watched hours of porn, stroked himself until he felt nothing but raw skin on skin, but arousal has never been like this. It's never been a foreign touch. He's never even really tried to imagine the acts on his computer screen being done to and by him. He's in high awe of the boy leaning over him, in his space, breathing the same hot air.

A deep, resentful part of Craig always believed if he never acted on his sexual preference, it wouldn't have to be true. Now, at twenty-one, he has finally given in.  _Finally_. He finds himself panting into Tweek's mouth and pushing his hips towards the sensation of Tweek's hand pumping his cock.

The camera isn't capturing everything; Craig knows this as his body slides down the uncomfortable car seat. He hasn't been in the back of this car since it belonged to his dad and he was just a passenger. His eyes sweep over his surroundings, trying to pause and make this last, an attempt toremember every last detail, but his heart is pounding and Tweek is staring at him. This is the most solid eye contact Tweek has ever made with him and Craig can't hold onto it. His head rolls back when Tweek squeezes his cock, and he pushes his hips up into the grip. Craig shuts his eyes; this is surreal.

Tweek is panting too, his heated breath splashing over Craig's neck, inches away from his skin. He feels like he's sweating and overheated, the muscles in his hips tight and tense. It's almost painful, but that only makes it so much better. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks that there are so many other things he and Tweek can do that might feel even better than this. He won't let himself think about it, but he knows that his body wants it.

"How is it?" Tweek asks, quiet and uncertain.

Craig exhales sharply and drops his chin to his chest, looking up at the blonde through his eyelashes. " _Fuck_."

Tweek huffs out a quiet laugh and slides his hand faster on Craig's cock, making sure he hits the base and circles the base of his palm over the head. Craig thrusts his hips up, trying to fuck Tweek's hand. He gasps noisily, but he's too high to be embarrassed about it. His hands reach up under Tweek's jacket to rest on Tweek's ribs through his sweater. He feels small and comfortable, and while Craig tries pulling him closer, Tweek resists, muttering something about balance. Craig groans and grips the car seat below him with one hand to use as leverage to thrust up.

The anxiety he would usually feel at the thought of Tweek already being sexually experienced with men has gone, replaced with a gratitude that someone can touch him exactly as he needs to be touched. He hates admitting that need. Tweek seems to be reading him, shifting his focus to just below the head of Craig's cock, stroking in short, fast bursts before sliding down to take care of the rest of his length. Craig is moaning, completely out of control as Tweek takes him far away from who he is.

"Faster, faster,  _more_ ," He gasps, dropping his head back and tightening his hips as Tweek complies.

Craig is gasping, his entire body clenched. He can feel a line of muscles all the way down the back his legs burning as he pushes his hips, groaning and squeezing the waist and cushion under his hands as he cums under someone else's care for the first time.

"Good?" Tweek asks as he pulls back. In the low light of night, Craig can see his wide eyes, pink cheeks, and his wet hand held out away from their bodies. Craig's spent cock feels warm and satisfied.

Craig says nothing. He just closes his eyes and quietly tries to catch his breath.

_16:11:00 Jan 10 2013_

Token lets the footage play, but scrambles for his phone. A toothy smile stamps his face as he texts Kyle.

"Tweek gave him a handjob!"

A second later, the phone lights.

"THIS IS GETTING GOOD."

_17:45:59 Jan 11 2013_

"Gah! You're fifteen minutes late!" Tweek snaps, marching out of his front door to meet Craig halfway down the path to his front door.

"Sorry!" Craig responds. "I was at work all day and some asshole brought in his skunked dog for a bath and Kyle made me help hold it down in the tub. I had to go home and shower."

Tweek twitches in front of him, not taking his eyes off of Craig's, even when Craig hoists his camera to occupy the space between their faces. Tweek clearly doubts the excuse and Craig decides that instead of lying next time, he'll say nothing. He fidgets with a few settings on the camera aimlessly and Tweek lets out a rush of air that sounds like he'd been forgetting to breathe.

"Let's do this," Tweek announces, turning sharply for the front door.

"Wait, you gotta coach me or something first!" Craig demands, letting the camera fall back to his waist and grabbing Tweek's shoulder in his hand. The other boy turns around, but backs up out of Craig's touch and Craig recoils at the idea that he'd be perceived as "the gay one" at the Tweaks' house.

"Ugh, you'll be fine. As long as you pretend that we're just friends, which you're already pretty fantastic at, you'll be fine."

Craig studies Tweek for a moment, trying to decipher the angry tone behind his last statement. Tweek has turned back around and begun walking up the concrete path to the front door. Craig rolls his eyes and follows him, watching his step over the frozen slush beneath his feet. Just as Tweek pulls the door open for Craig he mumbles "Oh, and Craig? Camera off."

Token's heart sinks at the words. He'd already put headphones on and turned off the lights in his studio so he could properly immerse himself in what he knew would be an important scene in Craig's story.

"Alright," comes his friend's deep voice. With cautious optimism, Token watches the screen as Craig snaps the lens cap on the camera. The screen goes black for a moment and then satisfaction floods him when he hears Craig's deceitful confirmation. "It's off."

"Welcome, Craig! Long time no see!"

Mr. Tweak greets him and Craig already feels like he's in trouble. Tweek gestures towards the table and he moves to sit down.

"Gah! Not that one, that's my dad's seat," Tweek blurts out. Craig freezes, hand hovering over the back of the chair he began to pull out.

"Don't be so rude, son! He's a guest. He can sit wherever he likes."

Craig cannot move, unsure whether he should side with his pseudo-boyfriend or his pseudo-boyfriend's father.

"Go on, Craig. Sit down."

He slowly sinks into his seat, setting the camera by his feet and watching as Tweek sits down in a chair that is probably always his. At the opposite end of the table, Tweek looks at Craig blankly and it finally strikes him that Tweek wants to do this as little as he does. He wonders how many times over the years Tweek has had to introduce friends to his parents like this. Craig wonders if Thomas's mom is as uptight as the Tweaks are.

Steaming cups of coffee are brought to the table accompanied by a few seconds of poetry to describe a flavor Craig is just going to hide beneath cream. Tweek's parents sit on either side of him and now all four sides of the table are occupied. Craig briefly scopes out the path to the door and makes sure his phone is in his pocket in case he needs to fake an emergency and bail.

"Dinner will be ready soon," Mrs. Tweak begins. "Until then, we can talk."

Token had closed his eyes, listening to the audio when a loud rustling against the mic causes them to snap open. Craig had hit the mic with his hand when he reached beneath the table to pop the lens cap off. Token chuckles softly as he observes Craig using his toe to slowly push the camera into a position his wants. Token is impressed with his cameraman's ability to blindly frame a scene. By the time he's done, there are four sets of legs and four pairs of shoes within the shot. "It's not perfect, Craig," he says aloud, "but I'll make it work."

"We love our son," Mrs. Tweak begins. "Like any parent, we want what's best for him, his health, and his future."

Mrs. Tweek uncrosses and recrosses her legs beneath the table.

"We firmly believe that friends are an important part of Tweek's support system," her husband continues, sliding his feet out of their house slippers and letting them rest on top. "We just want to make sure that you're aware of everything you need to be aware of. Do you understand that?"

"Yes," Craig answers. His feet remain still and flat on the ground. Snow melts out of the sole of his Docs and a small puddle of water grows around him.

"Our son is schitzoaffective," Mr. Tweak says after a pause that Token is unable to interpret from his seat on the floor. A pair of socked feet begin to bounce in their sandals and Token sighs in frustration as Tweek's rustling stains the audio. "More importantly," he continues. "Tweek is a drug addict."

"There are a few drugs he takes, with supervision, to help control the anxiety, hallucinations and paranoia that are a symptom of his disease. All other drugs, both illegal and legal, are off limits for Tweek."

"If you're going to be spending time with Tweek you need to understand and encourage sobriety. Tweek is currently on step four of the Twelve Step Program for Heroin Addiction. We recommend familiarizing yourself with this program if you plan on spending time with our son."

"If you're ever uncertain about anything Tweek's participating in, you can call us. We'll make sure you have our cell phone numbers before you leave today. If you're unable to reach us, or would prefer to speak to someone else, we can give you the phone number for Tweek's Recovery Counselor too."

"Tweek's not allowed to have a phone as long as he lives at home because he's had a history of using it to obtain drugs. If you ever see him with a phone, please let us know. Please do not let Tweek use your cellphone."

"In the past, friends of Tweek's have become addicted to drugs due to our son's influence. We do not want to see him ruin another person's life again. If you don't think you have enough willpower to say no to him if he offers you drugs, please reconsider this friendship. If Tweek ever  _does_  offer you drugs, please call us  _immediately_  so we can take the appropriate actions."

The volley is almost too painful for Token to listen to. He can't imagine what it's like above the table. Several minutes ago, Tweek stopped shaking his feet before beginning to roll his right ankle in slow, deliberate circles. Craig's feet have not moved, but the puddle of water they rest in begins to run in the direction of the floor's subtle slope. Mr. Tweak flexes his toes as he talks. Mrs. Tweak continues to uncross and recross her legs and Token knows the color of her underwear. Token just barely picks up on a timer buzzing from the kitchen and Mrs. Tweak rises from her seat.

"Ah," she chimes. "Dinner's ready."

"Excellent," Mr. Tweak says, shoving his feet back into their slippers. "I think that's enough for now. Let's just use dinner to get to know each other better."

There is a small squelch as Craig shifts his feet in their puddle. "Alright," he says.

"So, Craig, how do your parents feel about all those tattoos?"

"We're going to head out for a little bit," Tweek tells his parents. "Walk to the ice cream shop or something."

"That sounds like a good idea. Thanks for coming over Craig," Mr. Tweak smiles at him. Craig stares back at him, wondering if Tweek will look like his father when he's older. He extends a hand to shake and Craig takes it, shaking it only once before letting his hand fall away. Mrs. Tweak gives him a small wave from the kitchen before turning her attention to the dishes.

Tweek kisses both of his parents and thanks them, as if what they just did to him wasn't some brand of torture. Craig holds his breath, silently encouraging Tweek to hurry. He doesn't inhale again until they're on the front porch, door shut behind them.

"Wow," Craig says.

"God dammit! Be silent until we're at least three houses away!" Tweek snaps, zipping his coat up and shoving ungloved hands into his pockets as he walks swiftly towards the sidewalk. Craig films the blonde as he moves away from him, letting Tweek's form shrink into the landscape of a snowy South Park. In the dark, he becomes nothing more than a silhouette. Craig considers telling Tweek to move a few steps to the left and stand beneath the street lamp, but it strikes him that Tweek is probably avoiding it on purpose. He steadies the camera on his shoulder and flips the flashlight on his iPhone so he can watch the sidewalk as he catches up.

"That was brutal," Craig starts, only one house past the Tweak's.

Tweek nods.

"How many times have you had to do that?"

"I've lost count."

"They're a little dramatic, don't you think?"

Tweek turns to look at Craig, and Craig watches his amber eyes flit between the camera and his own.

"I'm a drug addict."

"Yeah, so you're a little fucked up. It's not like they aren't. Your dad told me you can't have any drugs thirty seconds after handing you a cup of caffeine. I'm not particularly inclined to listen to their suggested methods for living life."

Craig stops beneath a street light and Tweek fidgets uncomfortably next to him. "You know," Craig says as he pulls out a half crushed box of cigarettes and offers one to Tweek, "street lights are the safest place to stand at night. No one's going to rape you or anything if you can see their face." Tweek shakes his head no, maybe at the cigarettes, maybe at the attempt to make him feel comfortable.

As he lights up and takes a few hits, Tweek leans against the pole and looks up at Craig's face. "What's your suggested method, then?" Tweek asks. "For living life?"

"There's no point in living at all if you can never feel good," Craig shrugs, raising his eyebrows as he blows a cloud of smoke down at Tweek.

Tweek rolls his eyes and pushes off the pole. "C-come on," he stutters, "Baskin Robbins closes at eight."

"Wait, we're actually getting ice cream? I thought that was your code for getting stoned or something."

"Gah! Please don't make fun of me!"

"I'm not making fun of you!" Craig retorts, looking through the viewfinder at the dim sidewalk while they walk, wondering if any of tonight's footage is even going to be salvageable. "That was an awful fucking experience. I'm dying to get high; I imagine you are too."

Tweek grabs a handful of snow in his bare hands and chucks it at the stop sign on the corner. It hits the sign with a metallic bang and Craig's eyes widen at the brief display of frustration from the shorter man. "Of course I am, Craig! All I'm ever dying to do is to get high. That was the whole fucking point of what my parents were trying to tell you!"

Craig takes the cigarette out of his mouth and puts it in between Tweek's lips. He watches him slowly fill his lungs with smoke and Craig is certain he can see the nicotine already working to loosen Tweek's shoulders. He lights himself a second cigarette and lets Tweek keep the first. If he's going to fix their relationship, he's going to have to be a little more proactive.

"We'll get out of this town," Craig promises, trying to push the idea that he can get Tweek out of the reach of his parents and addictions. "In Chicago there will be no parents to deny their twenty-one year old son a cell phone. In the meantime, let's have a little fun."

"Craig."

"Heroin, right? That's your vice?"

Tweek sighs and gives in, "I'm not picky, but if I have a choice, yeah."

"That's a rough drug, from what I know," Craig tells him. "Maybe that's where your problem lies?"

Tweek is silent.

"Have you considered sticking to softer stuff?" Craig suggests. "Weed?"

"That's not really how recovery works."

"Says who? I've seen you smoke pot. It relaxes you. Maybe you can use weed instead of heroin? Replace the hard drug with an easy one," he explains.

Craig sees Tweek shrug in his peripheral vision.

"If you have any cash on you, I bet we can make it to Kenny's before Baskin Robbin's closes. You  _have_  to try rainbow sherbert stoned."

"We don't need to go to Kenny's," Tweek says, his tone, rather than his words, confirming that Craig has won.

Craig films Tweek hooking a hard left at the end of his block instead of the right that would take them to Main Street. Here the sidewalk dissolves into dirt, a few floating chunks of concrete threatening to trip Tweek as he navigates in sandals and socks that must be wet by now. There are a few houses scattered beyond the dirt road, but for the most part, South Park falls dark beyond the last residential street. A neighborhood erodes into abandoned industrial ruins, a few telephone poles and a train track that only sees a locomotive twice a month. Tweek is illuminated by nothing but the moon reflecting off the snow, his skin and hair catching the light in a way that Craig's never would.

It's not a long walk, but the lack of conversation makes it just uncomfortable enough for Craig to hide behind his camera, walking several paces behind Tweek and filming as they go. Tweek walks a familiar path weaving through graffitied corrugated steel and sagging chain link fences until they emerge on the train tracks. Craig and his friends never spent time here as kids, but he knew kids that did. Tweek lives so close to the tracks, it makes sense to Craig that he was one of them, but he can't shake the thought that this doesn't seem like Tweek's style: scrap metal, stray dogs, "No Trespassing" signs.

Tweek leads him to a small conductor's booth that sits to the side of the tracks. Craig recalls the year that Leroy and Dog Poo got suspended from school for a week for locking Patty Nelson in it for twenty-four hours and Craig wishes he lived in a town where he didn't have memories from middle school constantly interrupting his twenties. Tweek prys the door open and slides into the one of the two seats inside the small structure. Craig joins him, pulling the door shut behind them. He positions the camera on small ledge under the window, grateful to shove his frozen fingers into his pockets for a few moments.

"I'm going to throw up if you don't start talking soon," Tweek blurts out.

"Um, okay?" Craig answers, leaning away from Tweek but turning to face him, watching the blond boy pull a metal lunchbox out from a drawer beneath the control table. Inside are various ziploc bags and a few orange bottles, as well as a small leather pouch that Craig realizes with dull shock probably contains Tweek's heroin needles. "What do you want to talk about?

"Gah!" Tweek jumps. He drops his joint and has to reach down to the floor to fetch it. Craig watches his pants tighten around his ass as the other boy bends over his chair. He lets out a sigh and pulls out his phone.

"Put your phone away," Tweek says in horror when he stands up. "Do you want people to know what we're up to in here?"

"Is this the best place to keep your drugs anyway?" Craig asks, shoving his phone back into his pocket as ordered.

"Where do you keep yours?" Tweek asks bitterly, finally taking a seat again as he lights the joint and takes a shaky hit.

"Under my bed."

Tweek laughs with lungs full of smoke and it makes him cough. He hands the joint to Craig, who takes several hits on his turn, watching the paper ignite and peel away as the small glass conductor's booth slowly fills with smoke with every exhale he gifts it.

"I've managed to hang on to this stash for over a year now. This has been my best hiding spot so far. My parents would never guess something like this... I don't think."

Craig hands the joint back to Tweek, studying his companion while he smokes. This is how he likes to see the boy: relaxing, head occasionally rolling back on his neck while he lets the drug unwind him. Craig reaches a leg out and lays the toe of his boot on Tweek's foot. Tweek lays a hand on Craig's thigh and Craig reaches forward to take the joint from him.

"Please say something," Tweek pleads.

"Like what!" Craig laughs in frustration. "What are you freaking out about?"

"Dinner, I guess!" Tweek bites. "You just sat with my parents for an hour and a half while they talked about what a problem I am! All you wanted to do afterwards was get high. Don't you have anything to say about it? About me?"

"About you?"

The booth continues to fill with smoke and Craig can feel his face heat up with the effects of the drug already. This is a good place to smoke.

"Yes," Tweek answers. "How do you feel about me? Not knowing makes me anxious."

Images run through Craig's mind like a movie on rewind. He sees Tweek smiling and flirting with him at parties. He hears Tweek gossiping with him about their peers. He sees Tweek sitting across from at the hospital, blank and lifeless eyes staring out the window. He hears Thomas talking about Tweek's delusionals, Tweek's anxiety, Tweek's instability. He sees Tweek sandwich betweened his parents at dinner, staring at his wringing hands while his parents give Craig boundaries and rules he's supposed to obey. Craig sees Tweek stroking his cock in the back of his car and Craig can see Tweek through the smoke in the hot box of an abandoned conductor's booth they're currently sharing.

"I like you. I like to see you happy. I'd like to see you get away from your parents and anyone else in Colorado that thinks you need help."

"I do need help."

"I don't think so."

Tweek stands up and takes a step towards Craig. He isn't sure if he's just high or he actually sees the smoke part and open a path for Tweek to move closer towards him. His feet are numb in his shoes, so he stays seated, knowing he'll fall if he tries to stand right now. This is good weed.

"Can I kiss you?"

"Yeah," Craig answers, pulling the joint away from his mouth and letting his eyes fall shut as it's replaced by Tweek's lips. The kiss is warm, despite the cold.

"Will you be my boyfriend?" he asks. Tweek's face is closer to Craig's than he would have opted to frame this scene.

"Okay," Craig nods.

Tweek grins and Craig grabs his oversized coat in his hands, tugging the smaller boy into his body and kissing him again. Hands slowly meander through layer and layer of clothing, until Craig has his hands on Tweek's ribcage and Tweek's fingers draw quick circles on Craig's hipbones.

"Do you still want to go get ice cream?" Craig asks quietly into the kiss.

"No," Tweek answers him, pulling away from his mouth. "I'm going to have you for dessert instead."

He wants to say something about cheesy porn dialogue but Tweek is sinking to his knees and Craig's mouth can do nothing but fall open. Quickly, he reaches for the camera and props it on his shoulder to watch.


End file.
